THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/IRS. 


Fhe  Old  Corner  Book 

Store,   Inc. 
Boston,      -      Mass. 


ALIEN  SOULS 


ALIEN    SOULS 


BY 

ACHMED  ABDULLAH 

Author  of  "Night  Drums," 
"Mating  of  the  Blades,"  etc. 


THE    JAMES  A.    McCANN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  :  «  «  NEW  YORK 


Copyright    1922    by 
THE  JAMES  A.   McCANN   COMPANY 

All    Rights   Reserved 


58475 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.    3.    A. 


TO 

PHOEBE  FOSTER 

Pour  Toi" 


859853 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FEUD  ..............  1 

REPRISAL  ............  21 

'/THE  HOME-COMING      .........  46 

THE  DANCE  ON  THE  HILL  .           ......  65 

THE  RIVER  OF  HATE      .........  76 

THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK  .........  97 

MORITURI-     ............  114 

THE  JESTER  ............  125 

s/  THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  LITTLE  THIN  THREAD   .      .  146 

GRAFTER  AND  MASTER  GRAFTER    ......  153 

THE  LOGICAL  TALE  OF  THE  FOUR  CAMELS  .  .  .  165 

THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD  .......  172 

>/  BLACK  POPPIES  ...........  199 


PERFECT  WAY     .........     215 

TAO  231 


FEUD 

TO-DAY  he  lives  in  Bokhara,  in  the  old  quarter  of 
the  desert  town  that  the  natives  call  Bokhara-i-Shereef. 
He  has  a  store  in  a  bazaar  not  far  from  the  Samarkand 
Gate,  where  he  sells  the  gold-threaded  brocades  of 
Khiva  and  the  striped  Bokhariot  belts  that  the  caravan- 
men  exchange  for  brick-pressed  tea  across  the  border 
in  Chinese  Turkestan,  and  where,  methodically  filling; 
his  pipe  with  tobacco  from  the  carved  pumpkin-shell 
at  his  elbow,  he  praises  the  greatness  of  Russia, 

There,  at  noon  every  day,  his  ten-year-old  son  comes 
to  him,  bringing  clean  and  well-spiced  food  from  the 
market. 

"Look  at  him !"  he  says  often,  proudly  pinching  the 
supple  arms  of  the  lad,  and  exhibiting  him  as  he  would 
a  pedigreed  stallion.  "Sinews  and  muscles  and  a  far- 
seeing  eye,  and  no  nerves — none  at  all.  Because  of 
which  I  give  thanks  to  Allah  the  Wise-judging,  the 
Opener  of  the  Door  of  Knowledge  with  the  Key  of 
His  Mercy.  For  one  day  my  son  will  wear  a  plaited, 
green  coat  and  a  tall  chugerma  cap  of  white  fur,  and 
serve  Russia.  He  will  learn  to  shoot  straight,  very 
straight,  and  then,"  he  adds,  with  a  meaning  smile,  if 
he  happens  to  be  speaking  to  one  of  the  three  men 
whom  he  trusts, — "then  he  will  desert.  But  he  will 
return,  perhaps," — rapidly  snapping  his  fingers  to  ward 
off  misfortunes, — "he  will  return  to  his  regiment,  and 
he  will  not  be  very  much  punished." 


2  ALIEN  SOULS 

A  true  Russian  man  he  calls  himself,  and  his  name, 
too,  has  a  Russian  purring  and  deep  ringing  to  it — 
"Pavel  Alikhanski."  Also  there  is  talk  in  the  town 
that  he  is  in  the  pay  of  that  great  Bokharan  magnate, 
the  kuskbegi,  friend  of  the  Russians,  bringing  tales  to 
them  about  his  Highness  the  Ameer,  and  receiving 
milled  gold  for  the  telling. 

But  ten  years  ago,  when  I  called  him  friend,  his 
name  was  not  Alikhanski.  Then  he  called  himself 
Wazir  Ali-Khan  Sulaymani,  that  last  name  giving  clue 
to  his  nation  and  race;  for  "Sulaymani"  means  "de 
scendant  of  King  Solomon,"  and  it  is  known  in  half 
the  world  that  the  Afghans  claim  this  resplendent  He 
brew  potentate  as  their  breed's  remote  sire. 

In  those  days  he  lived  in  a  certain  gray  and  tur 
bulent  city  not  far  from  the  northeastern  foot-hills  of 
the  Himalayas,  where  three  great  countries  link  elbows 
and  swap  lies  and  intrigues  and  occasional  murders, 
and  where  the  Afghan  mist  falls  down  like  a  purple- 
gray  veil.  In  those  days  Russia  was  not  on  his  lips, 
and  he  called  himself  an  Herati,  an  Afghan  from 
Herat,  city-bred  and  city-courteous,  but  with  a  strain 
of  maternal  blood  that  linked  him  to  the  mountains 
and  the  sharp,  red  feuds  of  the  mountains.  But  city- 
bred  he  was,  and  as  such  he  lisped  Persian,  sipped 
coffee  flavored  with  musk,  and  gave  soft  answer  to 
harsh  word. 

He  did  not  keep  shop  then,  and  none  knew  his  busi 
ness,  though  we  all  tried  to  find  out,  chiefly  I,  serving 
the  Ameer  of  Afghanistan  in  that  far  city,  and  re 
tailing  the  gossip  of  the  inner  bazaars  from  the  border 
to  the  rose  gardens  of  Kabul,  where  the  governor  sits 
in  state  and  holds  durbar. 

But  money  he  had,  also  breeding,  also  a  certain  win- 


FEUD  3 

some  gentleness  of  spirit  and  speech,  a  soft  moving  of 
high-veined  hands,  well-kept,  and  finger-nails  darkened 
with  henna  in  an  effeminate  manner. 

He  spent  many  a  day  in  the  Khwadja  Hills,  called 
poetically  Hill  A 12,  €5,  K-K6/,  and  so  forth,  in  the 
Russian  and  British  survey-maps.  There  he  would 
shoot  bighorns  and  an  occasional  northern  tiger  that 
had  drifted  down  to  the  wake  of  the  Mongolian  snows. 
This  was  strange,  for  an  Afghan  does  not  kill  for  the 
sake  of  killing,  the  sake  of  sport.  He  kills  only  for 
the  sake  of  food  or  feud. 

Nor  could  he  explain  even  to  himself  why  three  or 
four  times  every  month  he  left  his  comfortable  town 
house  and  went  into  the  hills,  up  and  down,  follow 
ing  the  call  of  the  wilderness ;  through  the  gut  of  the 
deep-cleft  Nadakshi  Pass ;  up  beyond  the  table-lands, 
pleasant  with  apricot-  and  mulberry-trees ;  still  farther 
up  to  the  smoke-dimmed  height  of  the  Salt  Hills, 
where  he  stained  his  soft,  city-bred  hands  with  the 
dirt  of  the  tent-peg  and  the  oily  soot  of  his  rifle. 

Once  I  asked  him,  and  he  laughed  gently. 

"My  mother  came  from  the  hills,"  he  replied,  "and 
it  is  perhaps  her  blood  screaming  in  my  veins  which 
makes  me  take  to  the  hills,  to  kill  bighorn  and  snow- 
tiger  instead  of  killing  brother  Afghans." 

"You  do  not  believe  in  feuds?"  I  was  astonished, 
for  I  was  young  in  those  days. 

Again  he  laughed. 

"I  do,"  he  said;  "an  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth 
for  a  tooth.  A  true  saying,  and  a  wise  one.  But 
what  worth  is  there  to  me  in  killing  my  enemy  if  my 
enemy's  son  will  kill  me  in  the  course  of  time?  An 
unfinished  feud  is  a  useless  thing.  For,  tell  me,  can 
even  the  fleetest  horse  escape  its  own  tail?  Can  the 


4  ALIEN  SOULS 

naked   tear   their   clothes?    Can   a   dead   horse   eat 
grass  ?" 

So  month  after  month  he  went  into  the  hills,  and 
he  came  back,  his  soul  filled  with  the  sights  he  had 
seen,  his  spirit  peopled  with  the  tales  and  the  memories 
of  the  hills.  Often  I  spent  the  evening  with  him,  and 
he  would  digest  his  experiences  in  the  acrid  fumes  of 
his  bamboo  pipe.  He  smoked  opium  in  those  days. 

Then  one  day  he  came  back  from  the  hills  a  married 
man. 

She  was  a  hillwoman  of  the  Moustaffa-Khel  tribe, 
and  her  name  was  Bibi  Halima.  She  was  a  distant 
cousin  of  his  on  his  mother's  side. 

Tall,  hook-nosed,  white-skinned,  with  gray-black, 
flashing  eyes  and  the  build  of  a  lean  she-panther,  not 
unbeautiful,  and  fit  mother  for  a  strong  man's  sons, 
I  saw  her  often.  For  these  hillwomen  despise  the 
customs  of  the  sheltered  towns;  they  will  not  cover 
their  bodies  with  the  swathing  farandjts,  nor  their 
faces  with  the  cliasband,  the  horsehair  veil  of  the  city 
women. 

Ali-Khan  loved  her.  He  loved  her  with  that  love 
which  comes  to  fortunate  men  once  in  a  lifetime — once 
and  not  oftener.  His  spoken  love  was  as  his  hands, 
soft  and  smooth  and  courtly  and  slightly  scented.  He 
would  fill  those  hands  with  gifts  for  her  adornment, 
and  he  would  write  poems  to  her  in  the  Persian 
manner. 

And  she  ?     Did  she  love  him  ? 

Assuredly,  though  she  was  silent.  The  women  of 
Afghanistan  do  not  speak  of  love  unless  they  are 
courtezans.  They  bear  children, — sons,  if  Allah  wills, 
— and  what  else  is  there  for  woman  in  the  eyes  of 
woman  or  of  man?  Also,  since  love  is  sacrifice,  can 


FEUD  5 

there  be  greater  proof  of  love  than  the  pain  of  giving 
birth? 

No,  Bibi  Halima  did  not  weave  words  of  love,  cun 
ning  and  soft.  Perhaps  she  thought  her  husband's 
spoken  love-words  in  keeping  with  his  henna-stained 
finger-nails,  an  effeminacy  of  the  city,  smacking  of 
soft  Persia  and  softer  Stamboul,  the  famed  town  of 
the  West. 

She  did  not  speak  of  love,  but  the  time  was  near 
when  she  was  about  to  give  answer,  lusty,  screaming 
answer.  She  expected  a  child. 

"May  Allah  grant  it  be  a  man-child,"  she  said  to 
her  husband  and  to  her  mother,  a  strong-boned,  hook 
nosed  old  hag  of  a  hill  woman  who  had  come  down 
into  the  city  to  soothe  her  daughter's  pains  with  her 
knowledge — "a  man-child,  broad-bodied  and  without  a 
blemish!" 

"Aye,  by  God,  the  Holder  of  the  Scale  of  Law !  A 
man-child,  a  twirler  of  strength,  a  breaker  of  stones, 
a  proud  stepper  in  the  councils  of  fighting  men!" 
chimed  in  the  old  woman,  using  a  tribal  saying  of  the 
Moustaffa-Khel. 

Ali-Khan,  as  was  his  wont,  snapped  his  fingers  rap 
idly  to  ward  off  the  winds  of  misfortune.  He  bent 
over  Bibi  Halima's  hands,  and  kissed  them  very  gently, 
for  you  must  remember  that  he  was  a  soft  man,  city- 
bred,  very  like  a  Persian. 

"Let  it  be  a  man-child,"  he  said  in  his  turn,  and  his 
voice  was  as  deep  and  holy  as  the  voice  of  the  muezzin 
calling  the  faithful  to  prayer.  "Allah,  give  me  a  son, 
a  little  son,  to  complete  my  house,  to  give  meaning  and 
strength  to  my  life;  and  to  yours,  blood  of  my  soul!" 
he  added,  again  kissing  Bibi  Halima's  hands.  "And 
you,  beloved,"  he  continued  haltingly,  for  a  great  fear 


6  ALIEN  SOULS 

was  in  his  heart — "but  you,  pearl  tree  of  delight — you 
must  live  to — " 

"Silence,  babble-mouth !"  the  old  mother  interrupted 
with  a  shriek.  "Do  not  speak  aloud  with  naked  heart 
and  tongue!  You  will  bring  ill  luck  on  your  house! 
Of  course  she  will  live.  She  is  my  daughter,  blood 
of  my  blood  and  bone  of  my  bone.  She  is  of  the 
hills."  She  laughed.  "Seven  sons  have  I  borne  to 
my  lord,  and  still  I  live."  And  she  pushed  Ali-Khan 
toward  the  door,  mumbling  bitter  words  about  foolish 
men  of  Persian  manners  sporting  with  the  jinn  of  mis 
fortune.  "Go  now !" 

"I  go,"  Ali-Khan  said  submissively;  and  he  returned, 
half  an  hour  later,  bearing  many  gifts,  silk  and  brace 
lets  and  sweetmeats  and  perfume  from  Ispahan. 

But  Bibi  Halima  waved  them  aside  with  a  short, 
impatient  gesture.  No,  no,  no,  she  did  not  want  these 
man-made  things.  She  wanted  him  to  go  to  the  hills 
to  bring  back  to  her  the  flowers  of  the  hills,  purple 
rhododendrons,  soft-colored  mimosas,  and  wild  hibis 
cus  smelling  strongly  of  summer. 

"Go  to  the  hills,  O  pilgrim,"  added  the  old  woman 
as  she  saw  his  anxious  face.  "We  women  need  no 
man  around  in  the  hour  of  trial.  Ho!"  she  spat  out 
her  betel  through  blackened,  stumpy  teeth,  "let  women 
do  women's  business.  Men  in  the  house  are  as  useless 
as  barren  spinsters,  fit  only  to  break  the  household 
pots.  Go  to  the  hills,  my  lord,  and  bring  back  the 
flowers  of  the  hills.  On  your  return,  with  the  help 
of  Allah,  there  will  be  a  little  son  strengthening  the 
house." 

And  so  he  went  to  the  hills,  his  rifle  in  his  arm. 
Up  to  the  high  hills  he  went  to  pick  flowers  for  his 
beloved,  a  song  on  his  lips. 


FEUD  7 

"O  Peacock,  cry  again,"  I  heard  his  voice  as  he 
passed  my  house. 

Early  the  next  morning  Ebrahim  Asif  came  to  town. 
He  also  was  of  the  Moustaffa-Khel,  and  a  first  cousin 
to  Bibi  Halima,  and  upon  the  blue-misted  Salt  Hills 
he  was  known  as  a  brawler  and  a  swashbuckler.  A 
year  before  he  had  spoken  to  her  of  love,  and  had  been 
refused.  She  had  married  Ali-Khan  instead  a  few 
months  later. 

Now  he  came  to  her  house,  and  the  old  mother 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Go  away !"  she  shrilled ;  for  being  an  Afghan  her 
self,  she  did  not  trust  the  Afghan,  her  sister's  son. 

Ebrahim  Asif  laughed. 

"I  have  come  to  see  my  cousin  and  Ali-Khan.  See, 
I  have  come  bringing  gifts." 

But  still  the  old  woman  was  suspicious. 

"Trust  a  snake  before  an  Afghan,"  she  replied. 
"Ali-Khan  is  away  to  the  hills.  Go,  filthy  spawn  of 
much  evil!" 

"Spawn  of  your  sister's  blood,  you  mean,"  he  re 
plied  banteringly;  and  the  old  woman  laughed,  for 
this  was  a  jest  after  her  own  heart.  "Let  me  in !"  he 
continued.  "Once  your  daughter  blinded  my  soul  with 
a  glance  of  her  eye.  Once  the  fringe  of  her  eyelids 
took  me  into  captivity  without  ransom.  But  time  and 
distance  have  set  me  free  from  the  shackles  of  my 
love.  It  is  forgotten.  Let  me  bring  these  gifts  to 
her." 

So  the  old  woman  let  him  into  the  zenana,  where 
the  windows  were  darkened  to  shut  out  the  strong 
Northern  sun.  Bibi  Halima  gave  him  pleasant  greet 
ing  from  where  she  lay  on  the  couch  in  the  corner 
of  the  room. 


8  ALIEN  SOULS 

"Live  forever,  most  excellent  cousin !"  he  said,  bow 
ing  with  clasped  hands.  "Live  in  the  shadow  of  hap 
piness!"  He  took  a  step  nearer.  "I  have  brought 
you  presents,  dispenser  of  delights." 

Bibi  Halima  laughed,  knowing  of  old  Ebrahim 
Asif's  facility  for  turning  cunning  words.  She  spoke 
to  her  mother. 

"Open  the  blinds,  Mother,  and  let  me  see  what  my 
cousin  has  brought  from  the  hills." 

The  old  woman  drew  up  the  blinds,  and  Bibi  Halima 
looked. 

"See,  see,  Mother!"  she  exclaimed,  "see  the  gifts 
[which  my  cousin  has  brought  me !" 

"Aye,  Daughter,"  the  old  woman  replied,  "gifts  to 
adorn  the  house."  And  then  she  added,  with  the  pride 
of  age  greedy  for  grandchildren,  "but  there  will  be  a 
gift  yet  more  fit  to  adorn  this  house  when  you  lay  a 
man-child  into  your  lord's  arms." 

Then  the  terrible  rage  of  the  Afghans  rose  sud 
denly  in  Ebrahim  Asif's  throat.  He  had  come  in 
peace,  bearing  gifts ;  but  when  he  heard  that  the  woman 
;whom  once  he  had  loved  would  give  birth  to  a  child, 
the  other  man's  child,  he  drew  his  cheray. 

A  slashing,  downward  thrust,  and  he  was  out  of  the 
house  and  off  to  the  hills  again. 

The  blow  had  struck  Bibi  Halima's  temple  with  full 
force.  She  was  half  dead,  but  she  forced  back  her 
ebbing  strength  because  she  wanted  to  hold  a  man- 
child  in  her  arms  before  she  died. 

"Stop  your  crying!"  She  turned  to  her  mother, 
who  had  fallen  into  a  moaning  heap  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch.  "Allah  el-Mumit — God  the  Dispenser  of  Jus 
tice — will  not  let  me  die  before  I  have  laid  a  son  into 
my  lord's  arms.  Call  a  doctor  of  the  English." 


FEUD  9 

So  the  old  woman  came  to  my  door,  giving  word 
to  me  of  what  had  occurred.  I  hurried  to  the  Street 
of  the  Mutton  Butchers,  where  the  English  hakim 
lived,  and  together  we  went  to  the  house  of  Bibi 
Halima. 

He  examined  her,  dressed  her  wound,  and  said : 

"A  child  will  be  born,  but  the  mother  will  assuredly 
die." 

The  old  woman  broke  into  a  storm  of  tears,  but 
Bibi  Halima  silenced  her  with  a  gesture. 

"It  is  as  God  wills,"  she  said,  and  the  doctor  mar 
veled  at  her  vitality.  "Let  but  the  child  be  born  first, 
and  let  that  child  be  a  man-child.  The  rest  matters 
not.  And  you" — she  turned  to  me — "and  you,  my 
friend,  go  to  the  hills  and  fetch  me  my  lord." 

I  bowed  assent,  and  went  to  the  door. 

"Wait!"  Her  voice  was  firm  despite  her  loss  of 
blood.  "If  on  the  way  you  should  meet  Ebrahim  Asif, 
you  must  not  kill  him.  Let  him  be  safe  against  my 
husband's  claiming." 

"I  shall  not  touch  him,"  I  promised,  though  the 
sword  at  my  side  was  whinnying  in  its  scabbard  like 
a  Balkh  stallion  in  the  riot  of  young  spring. 

All  that  day  and  the  following  night,  making  no 
halt,  I  traveled,  crossing  the  Nadakshi  Pass  at  the  lift 
ing  of  dawn,  and  smelling  the  clean  snow  of  the 
higher  range  the  following  noon.  Here  and  there, 
from  mountaineers  and  the  Afghan  Ameer's  rowdy 
soldiers,  I  asked  if  aught  had  been  seen  of  the  two 
men,  both  being  well  known  in  the  land. 

Yes,  I  asked  for  both  men ;  for  while  I  was  hurry 
ing  to  my  friend  with  the  message  which  was  about 
my  heart  like  a  heel-rope  of  grief,  it  was  also  in  my 
soul  to  keep  track  of  Ebrahim  Asif.  Kill  him  I  could 


io  ALIEN  SOULS 

not,  because  of  the  promise  I  had  given  to  Bibi 
Halima;  but  perhaps  I  could  reach  Ali-Khan  before 
the  other  had  a  chance  to  make  the  rock-perched  vil 
lages  of  the  Moustaffa-Khel,  and  thus  comparative 
safety. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  with  the  lights  of  the 
camp-fires  already  twinkling  in  the  gut  of  the  Nadak- 
shi,  when  I  heard  the  noise  of  tent-peg  speaking  to 
hammer-nose,  and  the  squealing  of  pack-ponies,  free 
of  their  burdens,  rolling  in  the  snow.  It  was  a  cara 
van  of  Bokhara  tadjiks  going  south  to  Kabul  with 
wool  and  salt  and  embroidered  silks,  and  perhaps  a 
golden  bribe  for  the  governor. 

They  had  halted  for  a  day  and  a  night  to  rest  the 
sore  feet  of  their  animals,  and  the  head-man  gave 
me  ready  answer. 

"Yes,  pilgrim,"  he  said ;  "two  men  passed  here  this 
day,  both  going  in  the  same  direction,"  and  he  pointed 
it  out  to  me.  "I  did  not  know  them,  being  myself  a 
stranger  in  these  parts;  but  the  first  was  a  courteous 
man  who  was  singing  as  he  walked.  He  gave  us 
pleasant  greeting,  speaking  in  Persian,  and  dipped 
hands  in  our  morning  meal.  Two  hours  later,  travel 
ing  on  the  trail  of  the  first  man,  another  man  passed 
the  kafilah,  a  hillman,  with  the  manners  of  the  hills, 
and  the  red  lust  of  killing  in  his  eyes,  nosing  the 
ground  like  a  jackal.  We  did  not  speak  to  him,  for 
we  do  not  hold  with  hillmen  and  hill-feuds.  We  be 
peaceful  men,  trading  into  Kabul." 

It  was  clear  to  me  that  the  hillman  intended  to 
forestall  just  fate  by  killing  Ali-Khan  before  the  lat 
ter  had  heard  of  what  had  befallen  Bibi  Halima.  So 
I  thanked  the  tadjik,  and  redoubled  my  speed;  and 


FEUD  ii 

late  that  evening  I  saw  Ebrahim  Asif  around  the  bend 
of  a  stone  spur  in  the  higher  Salt  Range,  walking 
carefully,  using  the  shelter  of  each  granite  boulder, 
like  a  man  afraid  of  breech-bolt  snicking  from  am 
bush.  For  a  mile  I  followed  him,  and  he  did  not  see 
me  or  hear  me.  He  knew  that  his  enemy  was  in  front, 
and  he  did  not  look  behind.  Again  the  sword  was 
whinnying  at  my  side.  For  Ali-Khan  was  friend  to 
me,  and  we  of  Afghanistan  are  loyal  in  living,  loyal 
also  in  taking  life. 

But  there  was  my  promise  to  Bibi  Halima  to  keep 
Ebrahim  Asif  safe  against  her  husband's  claiming. 

And  I  kept  him  safe,  quite  safe,  by  Allah,  the  holder 
of  the  balance  of  right.  For  using  a  short  cut  which 
I  knew,  having  once  had  a  blood-feud  in  those  very 
hills,  I  appeared  suddenly  in  front  of  Ebrahim  Asif, 
covering  him  with  my  rifle. 

He  did  not  show  fight,  for  no  hillman  will  battle 
against  impossible  odds.  Doubtless  he  thought  me  a 
robber ;  and  so,  obeying  my  command,  he  dropped  his 
rifle  and  his  cheray,  and  he  suffered  me  to  bind  his 
hands  behind  his  back  with  my  waistband. 

But  when  I  spoke  to  him,  when  I  pronounced  the 
name  of  Ali-Khan  and  Bibi  Halima,  he  turned  as 
yellow  as  a  dead  man's  bones.  His  knees  shook.  The 
fear  of  death  came  into  his  eyes,  and  also  a  great 
cunning;  for  these  Moustaffa-Khel  are  gray  wolves 
among  wolves. 

"Walk  ahead  of  me,  son  of  Shaitan  and  of  a  she- 
jackal,"  I  said,  gently  rubbing  his  heart  with  the  muz 
zle  of  my  rifle.  "Together  you  and  I  shall  visit  Ali- 
Khan.  Walk  ahead  of  me,  son  of  a  swine-fed  bazaar- 
woman." 


12  ALIEN  SOULS 

He  looked  at  me  mockingly. 

"Bitter  words,"  he  said  casually,  "and  they,  too,  will 
be  washed  out  in  blood." 

"A  dead  jackal  does  not  bite,"  I  said,  and  laughed ; 
"or  do  you  think  that  perhaps  Ali-Khan  will  show  you 
mercy?  Yes,  yes,"  I  added,  still  laughing,  "he  is  a 
soft  man,  with  the  manners  of  a  Persian.  Assuredly 
he  will  show  you  mercy." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "perhaps  he  will  show  me  mercy." 
Again  the  cunning  look  shone  in  his  eyes,  and  a  second 
later  he  broke  into  riotous,  high-shrilling  laughter. 

"Why  the  laughter?"  I  asked,  astonished. 

"Because  you  shall  behold  the  impossible." 

"What?" 

"When  the  impossible  happens,  it  is  seen,"  he  an 
swered,  using  the  Sufi  saying;  "for  eyes  and  ears 
prove  the  existence  of  that  which  cannot  exist:  a 
stone  swims  in  the  water;  an  ape  sings  a  Kabuli  love- 
song — " 

"Go  on !"  I  interrupted  him  impatiently,  rubbing  his 
side  with  my  rifle. 

So  we  walked  along,  and  every  few  seconds  he 
would  break  into  mad  laughter,  and  the  look  of  cun 
ning  would  shine  in  his  gray  eyes.  Suddenly  he  was 
quiet.  Only  he  breathed  noisily  through  his  nostrils, 
and  he  rolled  his  head  from  side  to  side  like  a  man 
who  has  taken  too  much  blmng.  And  that  also  was 
strange,  for,  with  his  hands  tied  behind  his  back,  he 
could  not  reach  for  his  opium-box,  and  I  could  not 
make  it  out  at  all. 

A  few  minutes  later  we  came  in  sight  of  Ali-Khan. 
He  was  sitting  on  a  stone  ledge  near  a  bend  of  the 
road,  flowers  about  him,  carefully  wrapped  in  moist, 
yellow  moss  so  that  they  would  keep  fresh  for  the 


FEUD  13 

longing  of  his  beloved,  and  singing  his  old  song,  "O 
Peacock,  cry  again — " 

Then  he  saw  us,  and  broke  off.  Astonishment  was 
in  his  eyes,  and  he  turned  a  little  pale. 

"Ebrahim  Asif,"  he  stammered,  "what  is  the  mean 
ing  of  this?"  And  then  to  me,  who  was  still  cover 
ing  the  hillman  with  my  rifle:  "Take  away  your 
weapon  from  Ebrahim!  He  is  blood-cousin  to  Bibi 
Halima,  distant  cousin  to  me." 

"Ho !"  Ebrahim's  shout  cut  in  as  sharp  as  the  point 
of  an  Ulwar  saber.  "Ho !  ho !  ho !"  he  shouted  again 
and  again.  Once  more  the  mad,  high-shrilling  laugh 
ter,  and  then  suddenly  he  broke  into  droning  chant. 

I  shivered  a  little,  and  so  did  Ali-Khan.  We  were 
both  speechless.  For  it  was  the  epic,  impromptu 
chanting  which  bubbles  to  the  lips  of  the  Afghan  hill- 
men  in  moments  of  too  great  emotion,  the  chanting 
which  precedes  madness,  which  in  itself  is  madness — 
the  madness  of  the  she-wolf,  heavy  with  young,  which 
has  licked  blood. 

"Listen  to  the  song  of  Ebrahim  Asif,  the  Sulay- 
mani,  the  Moustaffa-Khel,"  he  droned,  dancing  in 
front  of  us  with  mincing  steps,  doubly  grotesque  be 
cause  his  hands  were  tied  behind  his  back;  "listen  to 
the  song  of  Ebrahim  Asif,  son  of  Abu  Salih  Musa, 
grandson  of  Abdullah  el-Jayli,  great-grandson  of  the 
Imam  Hasan  Abu  Talib,  great-great-grandson  of  Abd 
al-Muttalib  al-Mahz!  I  have  taken  my  rifle  and  my 
clteray,  arid  I  have  gone  into  the  plains  to  kill.  I  de 
scended  into  the  plains  like  a  whirlwind  of  destruction, 
leaving  behind  me  desolation  and  grief.  Blood  is  on 
my  hands,  blood  of  feud  justly  taken,  and  therefore 
I  praise  Allah,  Opener  of  the  Locks  of  Hearts  with 
His  Name,  and — " 


i4  ALIEN  SOULS 

The  words  died  in  his  throat,  and  he  threw  himself 
on  the  ground,  mouthing  the  dirt  like  a  jackal  hunting 
for  a  buried  corpse. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  aghast.  Was  the  man  really 
mad? 

But  no;  I  remembered  the  cunning  look  which  had 
crept  into  his  eyes  when  he  had  said  that  perhaps 
Ali-Khan  would  show  him  mercy.  He  was  playing 
at  being  mad.  There  was  no  other  way  of  saving  his 
life,  for  in  the  hills  madmen  are  considered  especially 
beloved  by  Allah,  and  thus  sacrosanct. 

"Blood  has  reddened  the  palms  of  my  hands,"  came 
the  droning  chant  as  Ebrahim  Asif  jumped  up  again 
from  the  ground  and  began  again  his  whirling  dance. 

"What  has  happened?"  Ali-Khan  whispered  in  my 
ear.  "Has  there  been  killing?  Where?  When?" 

Instead  of  replying,  I  pressed  my  rifle  into  his 
hands. 

"Shoot  him!"  I  cried. 

He  looked  at  me,  utterly  amazed. 

"Why  should  I  shoot  him?" 

Again  the  droning  chant  of  Ebrahim  rose,  swelling 
and  decreasing  in  turns,  dying  away  in  a  thin,  quavery 
tremolo,  then  bursting  forth  thick  and  palpable. 

"I  give  thanks  to  Allah  the  Just,  the  Withdrawer 
of  the  Veils  of  Hidden  Things,  the  Raiser  of  the 
Flag  of  Beneficence!  For  He  guided  my  footsteps! 
He  led  me  into  the  plains.  And  there  I  took  toll,  red 
toll!"  There  came  a  shriek  of  mad  laughter,  then 
very  softly  he  chanted :  "Once  a  nightingale  warbled 
in  the  villages  of  the  Moustaffa-Khel,  and  now  she  is 
dead.  The  death-gongs  are  ringing  in  the  city  of  the 
plains — " 

"Shoot  him,"  I  shouted  again  to  Ali-Khan,  "or,  by 


FEUD  15 

Allah,  I  myself  will  shoot  him."  And  I  picked  up 
the  rifle. 

But  he  put  his  hand  across  its  muzzle. 

"Why,  why?"  he  asked.  "He  is  blood-cousin  to 
Bibi  Halima.  Also  does  it  seem  that  reason  has  de 
parted  his  mind.  He  is  a  madman,  a  man  beloved  by 
Allah.  Shall  I  thus  burden  my  soul  with  a  double  sin 
because  of  your  bidding?  Why  should  I  shoot  him?" 
he  asked  again. 

And  then,  before  I  found  speech,  the  answer  came, 
stark,  crimson,  in  the  hillman's  mad  chant : 

"Bibi  Halima  was  her  name,  and  she  mated  with 
a  rat  of  the  cities,  a  rat  of  an  Herati  speaking  Persian. 
Now  she  is  dead.  I  drew  my  cheray,  and  I  struck. 
The  blade  is  red  with  the  blood  of  my  loved  one;  the 
death-gongs  are  ringing — " 

Then  Ali-Khan  understood. 

"Allah!"  he  shouted.  And  the  long,  lean  Afghan 
knife  leaped  to  his  hand  like  a  sentient  being.  "Al 
lah!"  he  said  again,  and  a  deep  rattle  was  in  his 
throat. 

The  grief  in  the  man's  eyes  was  horrible  to  see.  I 
put  my  hand  on  his  arm. 

"She  is  not  dead,"  I  said. 

"Is  that  the  truth?"  he  asked;  then,  pitifully,  as  I 
did  not  reply,  "we  have  spoken  together  with  naked 
hearts  before  this.  Tell  me,  is  the  tale  true  ?" 

"The  child  will  be  born,"  I  said,  quoting  the  Eng 
lish  doctor's  words,  "but  Bibi  Halima  will  assuredly 
die." 

And  then — and  at  the  time  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  great  sorrow  had  snatched  at  the  reins  of  his  rea 
son — Ali-Khan  sheathed  his  knife,  with  a  little  dry 
metallic  click  of  finality. 


16  ALIEN  SOULS 

"It  is  even  as  Allah  wills,"  he  said,  and  he  bowed 
his  head.  "Even  as  Allah  wills/'  he  repeated.  He 
turned  toward  the  east,  spread  out  his  long,  narrow 
hands,  and  continued  with  a  low  voice,  speaking  to 
himself,  alone  in  the  presence  of  God,  as  it  were: 

"Against  the  blackness  of  the  night,  when  it  over- 
taketh  me,  I  betake  me  for  refuge  to  Allah,  the  lord 
of  daybreak." 

There  came  a  long  silence,  the  hillman  again  roll 
ing  on  the  ground,  mouthing  the  dirt  after  the  manner 
of  jackals. 

Finally  I  spoke : 

"Kill  him,  my  friend.  Let  us  finish  this  business, 
so  that  we  may  return  to  the  city." 

"Kill  him?"  he  asked,  and  there  was  in  his  voice 
that  which  resembled  laughter.  "Kill  a  madman,  a 
man  beloved  by  Allah-  the  Just?"  He  walked  over 
to  Ebrahim  Asif,  touching  him  gently  with  the  point 
of  his  shoe.  "Kill  a  madman?"  he  repeated,  and  he 
smiled  sweetly  at  the  prostrate  hillman,  as  a  mother 
smiles  at  a  prattling  babe. 

"The  man  is  not  mad,"  I  interrupted  roughly;  "he 
is  playing  at  being  mad." 

"No!  no!"  Ali-Khan  said  with  an  even  voice  as 
passionless  as  fate.  "Assuredly  the  man  is  mad — mad 
by  the  Forty-seven  True  Saints !  For  who  but  a  mad 
man  would  kill  a  woman?  And  so  you,  being  my 
friend,  will  take  this  madman  to  the  villages  of  the 
Moustaffa-Khel.  See  him  safely  home.  For  it  is  not 
good  that  harm  should  come  to  those  whom  Allah 
loves.  Tell  the  head-man  of  the  village,  tell  the  priest, 
tell  the  elders,  tell  everybody,  that  there  is  no  feud. 
Tell  them  that  Ebrahim  Asif  can  live  out  his  life  in 
peace.  Also  his  sons,  and  the  sons  which  the  future 


FEUD  77 

will  bring  him.  Safe  they  are  in  God's  keeping  be 
cause  of  their  father's  madness !" 

I  drew  him  to  one  side,  and  whispered  to  him : 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?     What — what — " 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  gesture,  speaking  close 
to  my  ear: 

"Do  as  I  bid  you  for  the  sake  of  our  friendship; 
for  it  is  said  that  the  mind  of  a  friend  is  the  well  of 
trust,  and  the  stope  of  confidence  sinks  therein  and  is 
no  more  seen."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then 
he  continued  in  yet  lower  voice:  "Hold  him  safe 
against  my  claiming?  Assuredly  him  and  his  sons — 
and — "  then  suddenly,  "O  Allah,  send  me  a  man- 
child!" 

And  he  strode  down  the  hill  into  the  purple  dusk, 
while  I,  turning  over  his  last  words  in  my  mind,  said 
to  myself  that  he  was  a  soft  man  indeed;  but  that 
there  is  also  the  softness  of  forged  steel,  which  bends 
to  the  strength  of  the  sword-arm,  and  which  kills  on 
the  rebound. 

So,  obeying  my  friend's  command,  I  went  to  the 
villages  of  the  Moustaffa-Khel.  I  delivered  Ebrahim 
Asif  safe  into  the  hands  of  the  jirgahs,  giving  them 
the  message  with  which  Ali-Khan  had  intrusted 
me. 

There  was  a  little  laughter,  a  little  cutting  banter 
hard  to  bear,  and  some  talk  of  cowards,  of  city-bred 
Heratis  turning  the  other  cheek  after  the  manner  of 
the  feringhees,  of  blind  men  wanting  nothing  but  their 
eyes;  but  I  kept  my  tongue  safe  between  my  teeth. 
For  I  remembered  the  softness  of  steel ;  I  remembered 
Ali-Khan's  love  for  Bibi  Halima;  and  thirdly  I  re 
membered  that  there  is  no  love  as  deep  as  hate. 

Four  days  later  I  knocked  at  the  door  of  Ali-Khan's 


i8  ALIEN  SOULS 

house,  and  there  was  the  moaning  of  women,  and  the 
ringing  of  the  death-gong. 

Ali-Khan  was  alone  in  his  room,  smoking  opium. 

"A  son  has  been  born  me,  praise  Allah!"  was  his 
greeting. 

"Praise  Allah  and  the  Prophet  and  the  Prophet's 
family,  and  peace  and  many  blessings  on  them  all!" 
I  laid  my  left  hand  against  his,  palm  to  palm,  and 
kissed  him  on  both  cheeks. 

There  was  no  need  to  ask  after  Bibi  Halima,  for 
still  from  the  inner  rooms  came  the  moaning  of  women 
and  the  ringing  of  the  death-gong.  But  another  ques 
tion  was  in  my  heart,  and  he  must  have  read  it.  For 
he  turned  to  me,  smiling  gently,  and  said : 

"Heart  speaks  naked  to  heart,  and  the  head  an 
swers  for  both.  And  I  am  an  Herati  and  a  soft  man." 

There  was  peace  in  his  eyes,  at  which  I  wondered, 
and  he  continued : 

"Once  I  spoke  to  you  of  feud.  I  said  that  an  un 
finished  feud  is  a  useless  thing,  as  useless  as  horns 
on  a  cat  or  flowers  of  air.  For,  if  I  kill  my  enemy, 
my  enemy's  son,  knowing  my  name  and  race,  will  kill 
me,  and  thus  through  the  many  generations.  A  life 
for  a  life,  and  yet  again  a  life  for  a  life.  And  where, 
then,  is  the  balancing  of  lives?  Where,  then,  is  the 
profit  to  me  and  mine?  So  I  have  made  peace  be 
tween  Ebrahim  Asif  and  myself,  cunningly,  declaring 
him  a  madman,  beloved  by  Allah,  thus  sacrosanct. 
And  I  shall  sell  my  house  here,  and  take  my  little  son 
and  go  north  to  Bokhara.  I  shall  sit  under  the  shadow 
of  Russia,  and  I  shall  prosper  exceedingly ;  for  I  know 
Central  Asia  and  the  intrigues  of  Central  Asia,  and  I 
shall  sell  my  knowledge  to  the  Russians.  I  shall  be 
not  without  honor." 


FEUD  19 

"Do  you,  then,  love  the  bear  of  the  North  that  you 
are  willing  to  serve  him?" 

"Love  is  of  the  mind  and  not  of  the  heart," — he 
flung  out  a  bare  palm, — "unless  it  be  the  love  of 
woman.  And  Bibi  Halima  is  dead." 

"Then  why  serve  Russia?"  For  be  it  remembered 
that  in  those  days  I  served  the  Ameer  of  Afghanistan, 
and  that  there  was  talk  in  the  bazaars  of  a  railway 
being  built  from  Bokhara  to  Merv,  within  striking 
distance  of  Herat. 

Again  he  smiled. 

"Because  I  said  that  love  is  of  the  mind.  What 
does  me  weal,  that  I  love  and  serve.  What  does  me 
harm,  that  I  hate  and  fight.  See?  Years  from  now, 
if  it  be  so  written,  my  son,  thanks  to  the  honor  which 
shall  be  mine  under  the  shadow  of  Russia,  will  be  a 
soldier  of  Russia  in  the  north,  in  Bokhara.  He  will 
be  trained  after  the  manner  of  the  North,  and  he  will 
shoot  as  straight  as  a  hawk's  flight.  He  will  be  the 
pride  of  the  regiment,  and  he  will  wear  the  little  silver 
medal  on  a  green  ribbon  which  is  given  to  the  best 
marksman  in  the  army.  And  one  day  the  young  sol 
dier,  bearing  a  Russian  name,  even  as  will  his  father, 
will  desert  from  his  regiment  for  a  week  or  a  month, 
and  the  tale  will  be  spread  that  he  has  gone  north  to 
Moscow  because  of  his  young  blood's  desire  to  see 
new  sights  and  kiss  strange  women.  But  he  will  not 
have  gone  north  at  all.  No,  by  the  teeth  of  God  and 
mine  own  honor!  He  will  have  gone  south,  to  these 
very  hills,  and  there  will  be  no  desire  in  his  heart  but 
the  desire  to  kill.  He  will  kill  Ebrahim  Asif  and  his 
sons — may  he  have  as  many  as  there  are  hairs  in  my 
beard ! — and  also  the  women,  at  night,  when  they  go 
to  the  brook  to  fetch  water  for  the  evening  meal.  He 


20  ALIEN  SOULS 

will  kill  from  ambush,  wasting  no  shots,  being  a  sol 
dier  trained  to  war.  Ahi!  the  carrion  of  the  clan  of 
Ebrahim  Asif  will  feed  the  kites  of  the  Salt  Hills, 
and  for  many  a  day  to  come  the  jackals  of  the  Nadak- 
shi  will  not  feel  the  belly-pinch  of  hunger.  And  the 
family  of  Ebrahim  Asif  shall  be  no  more,  and  thus  will 
the  feud  be  stanched,  if  God  be  willing.  And  then 
my  son  will  return  to  the  north,  to  Bokhara.  And 
tracking  him  will  be  like  tracking  the  mists  of  dawn 
to  their  home.  For  what  is  one  soldier  more  or  less 
in  the  great  land  of  Russia,  where  there  are  thou 
sands  and  thousands  and  thousands  of  them?  Also, 
will  not  the  Government's  protection  be  his,  since  I, 
his  father,  too,  will  be  serving  Russia  not  without 
honor?" 

He  left  the  room  and  returned,  a  moment  later, 
holding  in  his  arms  a  little  bundle  of  silk  and  linen. 

"Look,"  he  said,  baring  carefully  the  head  of  the 
new-born  infant.  "See  the  eagle  profile,  the  hooded 
brow,  the  creamy  skin,  the  black,  curly  hair!  An 
Afghan  of  Afghans!  And  see, — he  opens  his  right 
eye, — has  he  not  the  eye  of  the  killer?" 

The  child  twisted  and  gave  a  little  cry.  Ali-Khan 
took  a  long,  lean  knife  from  the  wall,  offering  its  hilt 
to  his  son.  The  tiny  hand  gripped  it,  while  the  blade, 
point  down,  shone  in  the  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun. 


REPRISAL 

HE  had  kept  his  oath,  Hadji  Rahmet  used  to  say, 
for  wrong — or  for  right.  He  would  give  to  the  latter 
word  the  emphasis  of  a  slightly  lowered  voice.  For, 
clear  beyond  the  depths  of  even  subconscious  sophistry, 
he  knew  that  he  had  done  right;  and  the  hills  knew 
it — and  perhaps  Dost  AH,  the  Red  Chief. 

The  happening  itself  ?  What  did  it  matter?  Noth 
ing  mattered  except  the  right  and  wrong  of  it.  Be 
sides,  the  last  word  was  not  yet  said;  perhaps  never 
would  be.  It  was  bigger  than  his  life;  bigger  than 
Dost  Ali's  life;  bigger  than  the  hills  themselves. 

"The  hills!"  he  would  repeat  in  a  voice  tinged  and 
mellowed — by  distance,  as  it  were.  They  seemed  to 
play  a  personal  part  in  the  telling;  neither  in  the  back 
ground  nor  in  the  foreground,  but  hovering  enigmat 
ical,  fabulous — in  a  way,  naive.  It  had  an  otdd  effect 
— his  speaking  of  them,  here,  in  the  tainted,  brooding 
heat  of  India;  as  if,  by  speaking  of  them,  he  was  being 
carried  out  of  a  perplexing  present  into  the  austere 
simplicity  of  the  Himalayas;  as  if,  by  leaving  them,  he 
had  lost  some  of  his  own  crushing  simplicity.  Yet, 
leaving  them,  he  had  not  been  actuated  by  that  com 
plicated  emotion  called  Fear — in  spite  of  Dost  Ali's 
threats,  in  spite  of  the  leaky  tongues  of  the  Kabul 
market  place. 

The  man  did  not  understand  fear.  He  had  gone 
into  the  plains  to  find  spiritual  release  from  the 
memory  of  the  thing.  So  he  had  visited  the  many 

21 


22  ALIEN  SOULS 

shrines,  true  to  the  worship.  Assiduously  he  had  re 
peated  the  ninety-nine  excellent  attributes  of  Allah,  and 
all  his  thought  had  been  of  forgetting,  and  of  devotion 
to  Him.  He  had  wandered  from  the  Khyber  snows  to 
the  sour,  sluggish  swamps  of  Ceylon.  He  had  talked 
with  ascetics  of  many  faiths  in  that  land  of  many 
faiths.  He  had  done  bodily  penance,  gradually  sub 
duing  his  physical  Self.  But  his  memory  had  re 
mained  :  an  inky  scrawl  across  his  mind. 

"For  memory,"  said  the  hadji,  "is  of  the  soul,  and 
not  of  the  dirt-clouted  body.  .  .  ." 

Also  there  were  the  tongues — the  tongues  which  can 
crush  though  they  have  no  bones,  the  tongues  of 
Afghan  traders  who  drift  through  the  passes  into 
Hind.  They  would  babble  of  the  thing,  back  yonder 
in  the  glitter  of  the  hills.  .  .  . 

It  started  with  the  day  on  which  Hadji  Rahmet 
crossed  the  Red  Chief's  path  for  the  first  time.  Per 
haps  even — though  that  is  a  question  for  ethnologists 
to  decide — it  had  started  many  centuries  earlier,  when 
one  of  the  hadji's  ancestors  traveled  from  Persia 
through  Seistan  into  Kabul,  there  to  trade  with  smooth 
silk  and  flowered  Kisbah  cloth,  to  plant  the  damask 
roses  of  Ispahan,  to  give  a  soft  philosophical  twist  to 
the  harsh  lessons  of  the  Koran,  and  to  break  his  heart 
— here — in  the  stony  north;  while  the  Red  Chief's 
ancestor,  driven  out  of  Tatary  by  squat,  flat-nosed 
warriors  who  recognized  no  God,  who  fought  on  horse 
back,  and  who  tore  like  mastiffs  at  lumps  of  raw  flesh 
and  quaffed  down  curdled  milk  poured  from  human 
skulls,  crossed  into  Afghanistan  from  the  north.  There 
he  sat  himself  on  a  sugarloaf -shaped  hill,  built  a  rough 
castle,  and  put  his  descendants,  straight  down  to  Dost 


REPRISAL  23 

AH,  on  a  pedestal  to  represent  the  power  and  arrogance 
of  a  race  that  will  never  grow  old,  that  will  never 
emerge  from  the  sunlight  of  brazen  freedom  into  the 
thrall  and  gloom  of  civilization. 

Symbolic?     In  a  way. 

And  that  Hadji  Rahmet  should  come  into  the  Red 
Chief's  life  was  also  symbolic — ^and  necessary:  like  the 
shadow  in  a  light,  to  emphasize  its  harsh  brightness. 

Take  the  Red  Chief  up  there  in  his  stronghold,  the 
Mahattah  Ghurab,  the  Raven's  Station,  as  the  hill  folk 
called  it. 

Above  him  the  jagged,  bitter  rocks  of  the  higher 
mountains  where  scrub  oak  met  pine  and  where  pine — 
to  use  the  chief's  words — met  the  naked  heart  of  Allah. 
Still  higher  up  the  hard-baked,  shimmering  snows  of 
the  Salt  Range,  hooded  and  grim  like  the  gigantic  eye 
brow  of  some  heathen  Pukhtu  god,  a  god  mourning 
the  clank  and  riot  of  the  days  before  the  Arabs  pushed 
into  Central  Asia  and  whipped  the  land  into  the  faith 
of  Islam — alone  there  with  his  pride  and  his  clan;  clear 
away  from  the  twitter  and  cackle  of  the  city  marts, 
from  the  turrets  and  bell-shaped  domes  of  Kabul,  from 
the  strangling  lash  of  the  Ameer's  decrees;  sloughing 
his  will  and  his  passion  as  snakes  cast  their  skin ;  brook 
ing  no  master  but  himself  and  the  black  mountain 
thunder. 

At  his  feet  a  cuplike  valley  devoured  by  sunshine; 
farther  up  the  slopes  the  lean  mountain  pasture,  smooth 
and  polished  with  the  faint  snow  haze,  and  slashing 
through,  straight  as  a  blade,  the  caravan  road  which 
leads  to  Kabul ;  the  caravan  road  which,  centuries  ago, 
had  echoed  to  the  footsteps  of  Alexander's  legions — 
the  caravan  road  which  is  as  old  as  strife  and  older 
than  peace. 


34  ALIEN  SOULS 

Dost  AH  was  a  short,  wide-shouldered  man,  with 
gray,  ironic  eyes,  high  cheek  bones,  his  beard  dyed  red 
with  henna  juice.  Like  his  ancestors,  he  had  always 
greatly  distinguished  himself — that's  just  how  he  would 
have  considered  it — by  the  cheerful  and  methodical 
ferocity  of  his  fighting.  He  was  a  man  who  paid  his 
enemies  with  the  crackle  of  steel  and  slaughtered  cattle 
and  the  red  flames  licking  over  hut  and  byre;  a  man 
who  had  scarred  the  valley  for  a  week's  journey  with 
torch  and  cord,  and  whose  greatest  trust — greater  than 
the  fierce  desert  Prophet  by  whose  name  he  gave  oath 
— was  the  Khyber  sword,  curved  like  the  croup  of  a 
stallion. 

"I  judge  by  the  word  of  the  hand  and  not  by  the 
word  of  the  mouth,"  he  put  it  in  his  own  epic  manner; 
and  so  he  sat  there  on  his  mountain  top  and  watched 
his  breed  increase,  though  they  were  daughters  all  but 
one.  For  his  youngest  child  was  a  boy,  Akbar  Khan, 
seven  years  old,  short  and  broad,  with  a  tinge  of  red 
in  his  thick,  curly  hair — and  Dost  Ali  loved  him. 

"Thou  art  a  flower  in  the  turban  of  my  soul,"  he 
would  say,  picking  up  the  lad  and  pressing  him  to  his 
massive,  fur-clad  breast,  "and  my  heart  is  a  tasseled 
floorcloth  for  thy  feet.  Ho,  thou,  my  hero!"  And 
then  father  and  son  would  run  through  the  gray  old 
rooms  of  the  castle,  playing  like  children,  frightening 
the  women  over  their  cook  pots,  screaming  and  yelling 
and  laughing. 

Dost  Ali  was  easily  moved  to  laughter — laughter 
cold  as  the  hill  winds — and  he  laughed  loud  and  long 
when  early  one  day,  with  the  valley  still  waist-high  in 
the  clammy  morning  mist,  he  saw  Hadji  Rahmet 
wander  down  the  slopes,  driving  a  herd  of  sheep  with 
a  crooked  staff,  and  followed  by  his  little  son. 


REPRISAL  25 

He  had  heard  about  the  hadji  a  few  days  earlier. 

The  blind  mullah  who  ministered  to  the  scant  spirit 
ual  wants  of  the  Raven's  Station  had  brought  word  of 
the  stranger:  the  Kabuli  merchant  who,  after  his  wife's 
death,  had  bidden  farewell  to  the  mosques  and  bazaars 
of  the  city  and  had  come  to  live  in  the  hills — "to  for 
get,"  as  he  had  told  the  sneering  mullah,  "to  live  mated 
to  the  clean  simplicity  of  the  hills,  to  bring  up  my  little 
son  away  from  the  noisy  toil  of  the  market  places, 
away  from  the  smoke  and  strife  of  the  city  streets, 
here  in  the  hills  where  there  is  nobody  but  God." 

"God — and  the  Red  Chief !"  the  mullah  had  croaked 
through  his  broken,  blackened  teeth ;  and  then  the  hadji 
had  spoken  of  the  faith  that  was  his. 

He  had  spoken  of  Allah,  the  God  of  Peace. 

"A  new  Allah — by  Allah !"  the  mullah  had  laughed 
as  he  repeated  it  to  the  Red  Chief. 

Suddenly  his  laughter  had  keyed  up  to  a  high,  senile 
scream.  For  he  was  a  man  of  stout  orthodoxy,  to 
whom  a  freethinking  Sufi  was  worse  than  Christian 
or  Jew.  "A  new  Allah !  A  soft  Allah !  A  sickly  Allah 
wrapped  in  sweating  cotton !  An  Allah  who  prates  of 
forgiveness  and  other  leprous  innovations.  And  he — 
that  foul,  swine-fed  Kabuli — said  that  he  wanted  his 
blood  to  bear  witness  to  his  faith!  And  I" — again 
mirth  gurgled  through  the  mullah's  fury — "I  told  him 
that  all  the  faith  in  the  world  will  not  mend  his  bones 
when  we  stone  him — as  we  should — for  a  blasphemer 
and  a  heretic !" 

"God's  curse  on  him !"  Dost  AH  had  chimed  in — and 
here  he  saw  the  man  in  the  flesh,  walking  along  easily 
enough  for  all  his  city-soft  feet,  his  lean  body  swing 
ing  with  the  long,  tireless  pull  of  a  mountain  pony, 
chanting  as  he  walked : 


26  ALIEN  SOULS 

"Peace  upon  Thee,  Apostle  of  Allah,  and  the  Mercy 
and  the  Blessings!  Peace  upon  Thee,  O  Seal  of  the 
Prophets!" — his  voice  rose  and  sank  in  turn,  dying 
away  in  a  thin,  quavering  tremolo,  again  bursting  forth 
in  palpable  fervor,  massive,  unashamed,  sublimely  un- 
self -conscious  amid  the  silence  of  the  snows. 

"By  the  Three,  the  Seven,  the  Forty-seven  True 
Saints !  By  the  horns  of  the  Angel  Israfil !  Teach  me 
to  see  after  ignorance !" 

The  faith  in  his  heart  bubbled  to  his  lips — a  lonely 
prayer,  but  a  prayer  which  was  to  him  a  trumpet  call 
of  God's  eternal  laws,  a  rally  clear  around  the  world, 
a  force  in  his  heart  to  grip  the  everlasting  meannesses 
of  life  and  strife  and  smash  them  against  the  unchang 
ing  portals  of  peace. 

"Peace !"  He  bit  on  the  word.  His  lips  savored  it 
as  a  precious  thing,  then  blew  it  free  to  lash  the  cool 
hill  air  with  the  sound  of  it.  A  light  like  a  clear  flame 
came  into  his  eyes,  illumining  his  face. 

It  was  not  altogether  that  of  an  ascetic,  in  spite  of 
the  downward  furrows  graven  deep  by  long  hours  of 
meditation.  For  the  nose  beaked  out  bold  and  aquiline, 
with  flaring,  nervous  nostrils,  speaking  of  courage — 
unconscious,  racial  courage — scotched,  it  is  true,  by 
his  Persian  ancestry,  by  breeding  and  training  and  de 
liberate  modes  of  thought,  but  always  there,  dark- 
smoldering,  ready  to  leap. 

Even  Dost  AH  read  the  signs,  though  he  had  never 
had  cause  to  learn  the  kind  of  mental  stenography 
known  as  character  reading  and  psycology,  preferring 
to  judge  men  by  the  work  of  their  hands  and  the  venom 
of  their  tongues.  But  he  had  known  fighters — fighters 
of  many  races — and  this — 

"Peace,  O  Opener  of  the  Locks  of  Grief!"  droned 


REPRISAL  27 

the  hadji's  chant,  with  a  trembling,  throaty  note  of 
religious  hysteria. 

He  had  left  the  hard  grist  of  worldly  ambition  be 
hind  him  in  Kabul,  in  the  stench  of  bazaar  and  mart, 
in  the  burnished  dome  of  the  Chutter  Mahal,  the  Au 
dience  Hall,  where  once  he  had  sat  at  the  right  hand 
of  the  governor,  giving  of  his  stored  wisdom  to  help 
rule  the  turbulent  Afghan  nation.  Wealth  and  honor 
and  fame  he  had  flung  behind  him,  like  a  limp,  worn- 
out  turban  cloth,  to  bring  peace  to  this  land  of  strife, 
from  village  to  village. 

Peace!  With  the  thought  he  forgot  the  grim, 
jagged  rocks  frowning  above  his  head.  He  forgot  the 
bastioned  castle  which  blotched  the  snow  blur  of  the 
slopes.  He  forgot  the  lank,  rime-ringed  pines  which 
silhouetted  against  the  sky  like  sentinels  of  ill  omen. 
He  even  forgot  the  waddling  sheep  which  gave  him  his 
simple  living. 

They  turned  and  stared  at  him  out  of  their  flat, 
stupid  eyes,  helpless  without  the  point  of  the  staff  to 
marshal  their  feeding. 

"Peace!"  came  the  word  again — a  strange  word 
here,  and  to  Dost  AH  it  seemed  an  affront — an  affront 
to  the  sweep  of  the  hills,  an  affront  to  his  own  free 
breed,  to  the  Raven's  Station  which  had  always  gar 
nered  strife  and  fed  on  strife.  Yes,  an  affront,  and 
the  Red  Chief  stepped  square  into  the  hadji's  path  and 
shot  forth  his  hatred  and  contempt  in  a  few  sharp- 
ringing  words :  "Ho !  Abuser  of  the  Salt !" 

The  deadly  insult  slashed  clear  through  the  other's 
voice  and  thoughts.  He  looked  up.  Automatically — 
for  there  had  been  years  of  hot  blood  before  the 
message  of  peace  had  come  to  him — his  hand  leaped  to 
his  side,  fingering  for  the  blade. 


28  ALIEN  SOULS 

Dost  AH  smiled  at  the  gesture.  Thank  Allah,  he 
thought,  this  babbling  heretic  was  a  man  after  all.  He 
would  not  eat  dirt.  He  would  fight. 

"Good !"  he  breathed  the  word,  and  his  own  sword 
flashed  free.  But  the  next  moment  the  hadji's  hand 
dropped — dropped  like  a  wilted,  useless  thing ;  and  the 
Red  Chief  smiled  again — a  different  smile,  slow,  cruel 
— and  again  he  spoke. 

He  chose  his  words  carefully,  each  a  killing  insult, 
and  he  spoke  in  an  even,  passionless  voice  to  let  their 
venom  trickle  deep.  Moreover,  such  is  the  Afghan 
code  with  its  strange  niceties  of  honor  and  prejudice, 
that  unless  he  who  is  insulted  respond  immediately  with 
the  point  of  the  dagger,  the  consciousness  of  moral 
rectitude  rests  with  him  who  insults ;  and  so  Dost  AH 
was  shocked,  morally  as  well  as  ethically,  when  the 
hadji  stood  there  and  smiled;  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  had  called  him  a  beggar,  a  cut-off  one,  the  son  of  a, 
burnt  father,  a  foreigner,  and  a  Yahudi ;  though  he  had 
wished  that  his  hands  be  withered  and  his  fingers  pal 
sied  ;  though  he  had  compared  him  to  the  basest  kinky- 
haired  one  that  ever  hammered  tent  peg,  and  to  one 
cold  of  countenance ;  though  he  had  assured  him — "ay 
wall'ahi!"  the  Red  Chief  reen forced  the  statement,  "by 
the  teeth  of  God  and  mine  own  honor !" — that  his  head 
was  as  full  of  unclean  thoughts  as  a  Kabuli's  coat  is 
of  lice,  and  that  he  himself,  though  an  impatient  man, 
would  rather  hunt  for  pimples  on  the  back  of  a  cock 
roach  than  for  manliness  and  decency  in  the  heart  of 
such  a  one — "as  thou,  O  son  of  a  hornless  and  espe 
cially  illegitimate  cow !" 

And  still  the  hadji  was  silent,  passive,  his  sword 
hand  twisting  the  wooden  beads  of  his  rosary,  only  the 


REPRISAL  29 

slow  red  which  mantled  his  cheeks  telling  that  he  had 
heard. 

Dost  AH  looked  at  him,  open-eyed,  puzzled.  It  was 
beyond  his  comprehension.  If  the  other  had  thrown 
himself  at  his  feet,  imploring  protection  and  mercy,  or 
if  he  had  run  away,  he  would  have  understood.  He 
would  even  have  understood  a  sort  of  caustic  placidity 
— a  silent,  minatory  contempt  which  would  presently 
leap  into  flame. 

But — why — this  man  stood  his  ground.  He  stood 
his  ground  without  righting,  with  no  answering  flow 
of  abuse,  and  only  a  throaty  "Peace !  Peace !"  uttered 
automatically,  like  the  response  in  a  litany,  followed  by 
an  admonition  to  the  mountaineer  not  to  be  impatient 
— "indeed  thou  seest  through  the  whirling  mists  of 
passion,  brother!" — and  finally  a  few  stammering, 
ragged  words  drawn  across  his  helplessness  when  the 
Red  Chief  burst  into  another  flood  of  invective. 

Dost  Ali  was  a  simple  man.  He  could  not  sift  the 
hadji's  heart.  He  did  not  see  the  waves  of  passion 
which  were  lapping  beneath  the  other's  smiling  coun 
tenance  and  soft  words.  He  did  not  understand  how 
the  hadji,  slowly,  painfully,  had  purged  his  heart  of 
lust  and  hatred — how  even  now,  with  the  terrible  in 
sults  ringing  in  his  consciousness,  he  was  forcing  his 
faith  in  God  and  Peace  to  buffet  a  road  straight 
through  the  black  wrath  which  was  consuming  him; 
how  he  was  struggling  with  himself,  finally  doffing  his 
worldly  pride  like  a  dirty  garment. 

A  coward  ?  Only  in  so  far  as  he  did  not  want  real 
ities  to  brush  him  too  close.  And  here  reality  was 
bulking  big — reality  as  expressed  in  the  Red  Chief's 
squat  mightiness,  in  his  screaming  abuse,  the  half- 


30  ALIEN  SOULS 

drawn  sword  flickering  like  a  cresset  of  all  the  evil 
passions  which  he  loathed  and  which  he  had  set  out  to 
combat. 

"Peace,  brother!"  he  said  again.  His  voice  was 
steady;  and  then,  even  in  Dost  Ali's  slow-grinding 
mind,  rose  the  conviction  that  this  man — this  man  who 
suffered  the  most  deadly  insults  without  fight  or  flight 
— was  not  a  coward.  And  his  hatred  grew  apace.  For 
he  did  not  understand. 

A  man  who  fought — yes !  Also,  a  man  who  feared 
and  fled.  He  had  met  both  sorts,  had  handled  both 
sorts.  But  here  was  a  man  who  neither  feared  nor 
fled.  It  was  a  new  experience  to  the  mountaineer's 
naive  brutality — a  new  experience  to  crush  which  he 
would  have  to  devise  new  means.  What  means  ?  He 
wondered.  He  jerked  back  his  head  as  a  racing 
stallion  slugs  above  the  bit. 

He  stood  there,  squat,  wide-shouldered,  his  red  beard 
flopping  in  the  wind  like  a  bat  wing,  looking  with 
puckered,  puzzled  eyes  toward  the  east  where  the 
farther  fog  banks  were  melting  and  rolling  into  noth 
ingness  and  where  a  scarlet  flush  was  shooting  up  in 
fantastic  spikes — as  if  the  east  could  give  answer. 

Should  he  kill — outright? 

A  sob  of  steel,  a  gurgle,  blood  caking  on  the  ground 
— he  knew  the  tale  of  it,  oft  repeated — and  the  fire  of 
his  hatred  would  be  out;  the  heat  thereof  would  be 
spent. 

But  to  what  profit  ? 

Where  was  the  satisfaction  in  killing  a  man  who 
did  not  resist,  who  did  not  answer  steel  with  the  song 
of  steel,  flash  for  flash,  and  strength  for  strength?  It 
would  leave  the  mystery  still  unsolved,  the  riddle  un 
read,  the  grape  impressed.  The  fact  that  the  hadji  had 


REPRISAL  31 

once  lived  and,  living,  had  been  as  he  had  been,  would 
remain — like  dregs;  as  salt  as  pain.  Also,  Dost  Ali 
was  a  superstitious  man.  He  could  imagine  the  hadji's 
ghost,  after  the  death  of  the  body,  squatting  on  a 
mountain  top  like  a  lean,  red-necked  vulture,  looking 
down  at  the  Raven's  Station  with  flat,  gray,  indifferent 
eyes — perhaps  smiling,  perhaps  still  croaking  about 
Peace. 

Should  he  rob  him?  And  what  was  there  to  rob? 
A  muslin  shirt,  a  rough  khilat,  a  sheepskin  coat,  a  pair 
of  grass  sandals — not  enough  to  satisfy  the  greed  of 
the  meanest  dancing  girl  from  the  south. 

"Ho !  man  of  great  feet  and  small  head !"  he  began 
again,  then  was  silent.  For  the  other  had  dropped  on 
his  knees. 

"May  the  Lamp  of  Peace  clear  my  path  from  hearth 
stone  to  byre,"  he  was  praying,  oblivious  of  man-made 
passion  and  man-made  words;  and  the  Red  Chief 
trembled  with  rage.  What — by  the  blood  of  God! — 
what  was  the  use  of  a  talker  when  there  were  no  listen 
ers  ;  when  nobody  heard  except  the  lank  pines  and  the 
cursed,  blinking,  waddling  sheep,  and — ahi! — the 
hadji's  little  son? 

There  he  stood,  looking  on  with  wondering  eyes, 
munching  a  wheaten  cake  with  the  solemn  satisfaction 
of  childhood;  strong,  good-looking  with  his  father's 
hawklike  profile  and  deep-set  eyes. 

The  hadji  was  still  droning  his  prayer  of  peace,  and 
the  Red  Chief  laughed.  The  answer?  The  answer  to 
the  riddle  of  his  hatred?  He  had  it.  It  lay  in  the 
strength  of  his  arms,  the  clouting  strength  of  his  will. 
It  was  the  hills'  way — his  own- way. 

He  would  pour  the  black  brewage  of  fear  down  this 
stranger's  throat  till  it  choked  him  and  he  squealed  for 


32  ALIEN  SOULS 

mercy.  He  would  drive  him  into  the  shadow  of  his 
love  and  cause  him  to  whimper  like  a  beaten  dog — like 
a  dog  well  beaten  with  thorn  sticks. 

This  babbler  of  meekness  had  no  fear  of  the  Red 
Chief,  no  fear  of  the  hills,  but — "Pray !"  laughed  Dost 
AH,  "pray  to  me,  a  man  of  strife,  O  thou  fool  of  peace! 
Fray,  or  thou  shalt  moan  like  the  Bird  of  the  Tamarisk 
which  moaneth  like  the  childless  mother !"  And  with 
a  quick  gesture  of  his  great  hands  he  picked  up  the 
hadji's  little  son  by  the  waist  shawl. 

He  held  him  high — the  child  was  rigid  with  fear — 
he  walked  over  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice  where,  deep 
down,  the  lower  mountains  lay  coiled  and  massive, 
offering  their  immense  stillness  to  the  fiery  face  of  the 
sun.  Still  farther  down  the  cataract  of  the  Kabul  River 
fluffed  like  some  waxen,  blatant  tropical  flower. 

"Father !"  screamed  the  child. 

The  hadji  turned  and  at  the  moment  of  seeing  he 
seemed  to  be  struck  blind.  The  second  before,  straight 
through  the  fervor  of  his  prayers,  he  had  vaguely  real 
ized  the  world  about  him — the  peaks  and  the  sunlight 
and  the  cold  glitter  of  the  snows. 

Now,  suddenly,  a  nothing — black. 

All  that  was  bright  and  light  and  good  seemed  to 
have  leaped  back.  There  was  nothing — just  a  scream 
in  the  dark:  "Father!"  and  the  chief's  harsh  bellow 
as  he  swung  the  lad  by  the  twisted  waist  shawl  around 
his  head,  with  that  savage,  hairy  strength  of  his. 

A  moment  later  vision  returned  to  the  hadji's  eyes. 
He  saw  everything.  Absurdly,  incongruously,  the  first 
thing  he  saw,  the  first  impressions  which  his  eyes 
graved  on  his  brain,  were  the  details,  the  petty,  con 
temptible  details  of  inanimate  nature :  the  eastern  sky, 
serenely  cloudless,  running  from  milky  white  into  gold- 


REPRISAL  33 

flecked  crimson  with  a  purple-nicked  edge  near  the 
horizon's  rim;  farther  south  the  sun  rays  racing  in  a 
river  of  fire  and  melting  into  the  snows  with  a  sort  of 
rainbow-colored  foam.  He  saw  it.  He  understood  it. 

Often,  in  after  years,  he  would  speak  of  it.  He 
would  say  that  his  first  glimpse  of  his  son,  helpless  in 
the  mountaineer's  grip,  at  the  verge  of  death,  had 
seemed  but  another  detail ;  a  strange  detail ;  a  sudden, 
evil  jest  which  he  could  not  grasp. 

He  used  to  say  that  even  after  he  had  begun  to  com 
prehend  the  reality  of  it  his  immediate  thoughts  had 
not  been  of  his  son's  life,  but  of  the  waist  shawl.  He 
had  remembered  when  he  had  bought  it :  in  Kabul,  in 
the  Bazaar  of  the  Silk  Weavers.  His  son  had  liked 
the  pattern  and  the  bright  blending  of  colors.  So  he 
had  bought  it,  and — 

Words  had  come  to  him.  "Don't!  Don't!" — just 
those  words :  weak,  meaningless,  foolish.  But  he  spoke 
them  solemnly,  as  if  he  had  found  a  powerful  formula, 
and  then  his  little  son  gave  a  frantic,  straining  kick. 

He  jerked.  His  head  shot  down  and  his  feet  up, 
shifting  the  weight  of  the  sturdy  young  body.  The 
waist  shawl  snapped.  Quite  distinctly,  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second,  the  hadji  saw  the  broken  silk  strands.  He 
saw  their  feathered  ends  ripping  through  the  pattern, 
brushing  up,  then  down  in  the  wind  which  sucked  from 
the  precipice — and  his  son's  body  fell  away  from  the 
Red  Chief's  grip. 

It  turned  a  somersault.  It  plunged  into  space.  Came 
a  dull  thud,  from  far  down.  Silence. 

Dost  AH  stood  motionless.  By  the  Prophet,  he  had 
not  willed  this — this  thing.  He  had  only  meant  to 
sport  after  the  manner  of  the  hills ;  and  he  had  taken  a 
child's  life — like  a  snake  or  a  Hindu. 


34  ALIEN  SOULS 

He  must  atone,  somehow,  according  to  the  code  of 
the  hills. 

But  how?  Blood  money?  Of  course.  But  a  life 
was  a  life,  and  a  son  was  a  son — and  there  was  his 
own  little  son  running  and  playing  through  the  gray 
rooms  of  the  Raven's  Station. 

The  hadji  had  fallen  on  the  ground,  his  hands 
stretched  out,  clutching  the  short-stemmed,  tufted 
grass,  his  body  jerking  and  twitching. 

"Hadji!"  said  the  Red  Chief.  "Hadji!"— and,  as 
the  other  did  not  reply,  did  not  hear,  "by  Allah,  I  did 
not  will — this !" 

He  was  silent.  His  lips  twisted  oddly,  and  had  the 
hadji  looked  up  he  would  have  seen  a  tear  in  the  moun 
taineer's  beady,  puckered  eyes — a  tear  which,  strangely, 
seemed  to  lift  what  was  abominable  into  something  not 
altogether  unworthy;  to  overshadow,  somehow,  the 
drab,  cruel,  sinister  fact  of  the  broken  body  down  there 
by  the  cataract  of  the  Kabul  River. 

"Hadji!"  the  mountaineer  called  again.  Then,  as 
the  other  did  not  look  up,  did  not  reply,  hardly  seemed 
to  breathe,  he  walked  away,  shrugging  his  broad 
shoulders.  What  was  done  was  done,  he  thought,  and 
he  would  pay  blood  money  as  the  Koran  demands  it. 
Also,  he  would  give  the  hadji  a  wife  from  among  his 
own  people,  and  there  would  yet  be  another  little  boy, 
with  hawklike  profile  and  deep-set  eyes,  to  prate  about 
Peace. 

And  he  took  the  road  to  the  Raven's  Station,  where 
he  gave  a  sound  beating  to  the  blind  mullah — who,  ac 
cording  to  the  Red  Chief's  simple  logic,  had  been  the 
cause  of  the  whole  trouble — while  the  hadji  was  knit 
ting  his  riven  soul  to  hold  the  pain  in  his  heart. 


REPRISAL  35 

"Yes"  the  hadji  would  say  years  later  as  he  was 
wandering  through  the  sun-stained  plains  of  India, 
from  shrine  to  carved  shrine,  searching  for  release 
from  the  memory  of  the  thing — "yes,  the  Red  Chief 
had  prophesied  right.  Indeed  I  crept  into  the  shadow 
of  my  fallen  love,  and  I  whimpered  like  a  dog  that  has 
been  beaten  with  thorn  sticks!"  And,  with  a  flat,  tor 
tured  laugh,  he  would  add  that  God  seemed  to  have  an 
swered  his  prayer  for  peace — "/  had  askerf  for  Peace, 
don't  you  see,  and  He  sent  me  the  final  peace — the 
peace  of  death,  the  peace  of  a  hawk's  claw  and  a  snake's 
fang  and  a  hill-bred's  heart" 

An  hour  later,  at  the  edge  of  the  cataract,  he  found 
his  son.  Instinctively  he  folded  his  feet  under  his 
haunches,  squatting  by  the  side  of  the  broken  body, 
and  his  heart's  remembrance  followed  the  little  crushed 
life — followed  it,  followed  it  back  through  the  narrow 
span  of  years,  back  to  the  day  when  the  old  Yusufzai 
nurse  had  come  from  the  couch  of  his  wife  and  had 
laid  a  tiny  bundle  into  his  arms — "a  son,  my  lord,  may 
life  be  wide  to  him!" 

He  remembered  the  first  cry  of  that  tiny,  white, 
warm  bundle.  It  had  been  like  the  morning  cry  of  a 
wild  bird. 

He  remembered  his  son's  last  cry — strangled,  frantic 
—"Father!  Father!"  drowned  in  the  Red  Chief's 
harsh  bellow.  He  would  never  forget  it. 

And  the  hadji  sat  there  until  the  sun  died  in  a  sickly 
haze  of  coppery  brown — decayed,  it  seemed  to  him, 
like  the  sun  on  the  Day  of  Judgment — and  the  moon 
came  up,  stabbed  on  the  outer  horns  of  the  world,  dis 
passionate,  calm,  indifferent  to  the  heart  of  man. 


36  ALIEN  SOULS 

He  sat  there  silent  and  stony,  while  some  friendly 
hillmen  carried  his  son's  body  away,  decently  wrapped 
in  a  white  fringed  death  shroud,  a  kindly  old  woman's 
blue  turquoise  beads  forced  between  the  rigid  little 
ringers  so  that  the  hand  of  AH,  which  had  not  protected 
his  body  during  life,  might  protect  his  fluttering  soul 
after  death. 

He  sat  there  till  the  wind  came  driving  the  dusk  to 
ward  the  East;  till  the  sky  flushed  with  the  green  of 
the  tropics,  like  a  curved  slab  of  thick,  opaque  jade; 
till  the  afternoon  sun'  glared  hot  and  golden ;  till  once 
more  the  mists  of  evening  rose  and  coiled.  The  mists 
of  the  hills — the  mists  in  his  soul !  They  echoed  this 
day  to  the  scream  and  toll  of  the  death  gongs,  and  from 
his  heart  there  beat  up  a  sob  which  all  his  faith  could 
not  still. 

He  sat  the  next  night  through  and  watched  the  hiv 
ing  stars  swarm  and  swirl  past  the  horizon.  He 
watched  them  die  one  by  one.  He  watched  the  young 
sun  shoot  up,  racing  along  the  rim  of  the  world  in  a 
sea  of  fire,  with  shafts  of  purple  light  that  put  out  the 
paling  moon.  He  watched  a  long  streamer  of  north 
bound  birds,  wild  parrots  tumbled  out  of  their  south 
ern  home  by  the  moist  sweep  of  the  Punjab  monsoon ; 
they  flopped  about  the  lank  pines,  screeching  dismally, 
their  motley  finery  of  feather  bedraggled  with  the  snow 
chill  of  the  Himalayas. 

A  scout  bird  detached  itself,  flew  down,  then  up, 
flanking  the  packed  crowd  of  its  comrades  in  long, 
graceful  evolutions,  finally  leading  them  toward  the 
Raven's  Station,  which  etched  the  sky  line,  peaked  and 
hooded,  jeering  like  a  face,  extending  its  somber, 
scarred  walls  like  a  grim  jest  hewn  out  of  stone,  evilly 
infinite,  like  the  very  stronghold  of  the  night  and  the 


REPRISAL  37 

hills,  like  a  sooty  smudge  on  the  crimson  and 
gold  blaze  of  day — and  Hadji  Rahmet's  thoughts 
whirred  on  the  parrot's  wings:  up  to  the  Raven's 
Station. 

Up  there  was  the  patter  of  little  hard  feet  tapping 
the  stone  flags ;  a  curly  head,  tinged  with  red ;  a  sturdy 
little  nut-brown  body:  Akbar  Khan,  the  Red  Chief's 
son,  blood  of  his  blood  and  bone  of  his  bone. 

Up  there  was  childish  laughter,  as  the  old  women 
whispered  Persian  fairy  tales — of  the  flea  who  tried 
to  lighten  the  camel's  load,  of  Oguun,  the  god  of  little 
babes,  whose  fingers  and  toes  are  made  of  sugar  cane 
and  whose  heart  is  a  monstrous  ball  of  pink  sweetmeat 
that  was  baked  in  far  China. 

A  child's  laughter! 

The  thought  tore  the  hadji's  heart,  ragged,  paining, 
like  a  dull  knife. 

"O  Lord !"  the  prayer  came  automatic  and  meaning 
less,  "pardon  and  pity  and  pass  over  what  Thou 
knowest,  for  Thou  art  the  most  dear  and  the  most 
generous — "  He  was  silent.  He  bent  his  head  as  if 
listening.  At  his  feet  the  cataract  gurgled  away  to  the 
darkness  of  the  deep-cleft  passes — lap-lap-lap — mock 
ing. 

"And  then,"  the  hadji  would  say  afterward,  "the 
dagger  of  grief  pricked  the  bubble  of  my  faith."  And 
a  great  turmoil  surged  in  his  heart,  beyond  control, 
beyond  prayer  even;  running  into  something  molten, 
finally  emerging  into  the  solid  fact  of  his  hatred,  his 
desire  for  revenge. 

It  seemed  to  bring  up  from  his  heart  and  brain  un 
expected,  rather  forgotten  qualities,  as  a  storm-whipped 
wave  brings  up  mud  and  gravel  from  the  ground  bed 
of  the  shore. 


38  ALIEN  SOULS 

That  night  Hadji  Rahmet  turned  thief.  He  stole 
a  tiny  trotting  bullock  belonging  to  Ram  Chander  Dass, 
the  Hindu  who  picked  up  a  scant  living  by  lending 
badly  chipped  silver  rupees  to  the  hillmen  and,  as  the 
mullah  said,  by  praying  every  night  for  the  swag- 
bellied  and  bestial  god  of  the  Hindus,  which  same  god 
is  the  guardian  angel  of  Compound  Interest. 

He  stole  the  bullock.  For  he  had  decided  to  kill 
the  Red  Chief's  son,  and  he  knew  that,  while  sharp 
eyes  would  detect  a  stranger  wandering  up  the  slopes 
to  the  Raven's  Station,  none  would  bother  about  a 
bullock — in  a  land  where  bullocks  mean  money  and 
food  and  clothes — nor  would  sharp  eyes,  looking  from 
above,  see  a  man  clinging  to  the  bullock's  shaggy  belly, 
his  hands  buried  in  the  thick  pelt  of  the  wabbly  hump. 

His  long,  lean  body  tortured  into  a  grotesque  angle 
and  now  and  then  bumping  against  the  sharp  stones 
of  the  rock  path,  the  hadji  hung  on  precariously  while 
the  bullock  lashed  out  right  and  left,  lowering  its  head, 
snorting,  bellowing,  stamping,  whisking  its  tufted  tail, 
dancing  about  as  if  stung  by  a  bramra  beetle  in  its 
efforts  to  shake  off  the  strange  burden  that  clung  to  its 
nether  side ;  at  last  settling  into  a  resigned,  bovine  trot 
and  reaching  the  horses'  paddock  which  stretched  be 
yond  the  Red  Chief's  sheep  corral  just  after  daybreak. 

Already,  down  in  the  valley,  the  night  mists  were 
twisting  into  baroque  spirals,  tearing  into  gauzelike 
arabesques  that  burned  like  the  plumage  of  a  gigantic 
peacock  in  every  mysterious  blend  of  green  and  purple 
and  blue. 

Once  in  the  paddock,  the  hadji  dropped  to  the  ground 
while  the  bullock  trotted  away  to  join  its  mates  that 
were  dipping  their  ungainly  noses  into  a  stone  bin  half 
buried  beneath  the  crimson,  feathery  foliage  of  a  squat 


REPRISAL  39 

manna  bush.  There  was  nobody  about  the  inner  court 
yards  this  time  of  early  day.  The  watchmen  were  pac 
ing  above,  on  the  crenelated,  winglike  battlements  that 
flushed  out  sharp  and  challenging  under  the  rays  of  the 
young  sun,  farther  on,  where  the  sun  had  not  yet  pene 
trated,  melting  into  the  great  pine  woods  that  poured 
down  the  steep  slopes  and  running  together  into  a  single 
sheet  of  purplish  black,  stippled  white  here  and  there 
with  a  sudden  glisten  of  snow. 

The  hadji  stood  still  and  listened.  There  was  no 
sound  except  the  occasional  click-clank-click  of  a  metal 
scabbard  tip  dragged  along  the  stones  of  the  battle 
ments  or  the  creaking  of  a  grounded  rifle  butt. 

The  watchmen  were  looking  across  the  valley.  It 
was  there  that,  a  week  earlier,  the  Red  Chief  had  lifted 
the  slate-blue,  mottled  Kabuli  stallion  belonging  to 
Jehan  Tugluk  Khan,  the  great  naib  of  the  Uzbek  Khel ; 
it  was  thence  that  the  Uzbek  Lances  might  pour  toward 
the  Raven's  Station  to  take  toll.  The  sentinels  had  seen 
the  bullock  dance  up  the  paddock,  stamping  and  lash 
ing  and  roaring.  But  what  harm  was  there  in  a  bullock, 
mad  with  spring  fever? 

Hadji  Rahmet  looked  about  him.  To  the  left,  sep 
arated  from  the  paddock  by  a  stone  wall,  was  a  garden, 
transplanted  painfully  tree  for  tree  and  shrub  for  shrub 
from  the  Persian  lowlands,  and  challenging  the  eternal 
snows  in  an  incongruous,  stunted,  scraggly  maze  of 
crotons  and  mangoes,  teak  and  Mellingtonia,  poin- 
settias  and  begonia  creepers — all  frozen,  homesick,  out 
of  place.  The  Red  Chief  had  slaughtered  a  hundred 
head  of  cattle  and  sold  their  hides  to  pay  for  the  exotic 
plants  on  the  day  when  his  little  son  had  first  repeated 
after  him  the  words  of  the  Pukhtunwali,  the  ancient 
Afghan  code  of  honor  and  conduct :  "As  to  him  who 


40  ALIEN  SOULS 

does  me  harm,  may  I  be  permitted  a  full  measure  of 
revenge.  May  I  cause  his  hands  to  drop  away,  and 
his  feet.  May  his  life  pass  into  the  dark  like  a  sheet 
of  foam.  .  .  ." 

Beyond  the  garden,  a  little  higher  up,  stretched  the 
gray  stone  stables  of  the  blooded  horses.  The  hadji 
could  hear  the  strangely  human  cry  of  a  mare  heavy 
with  foal,  a  stallion's  answering  whinny. 

He  crossed  the  paddock  toward  the  castle  itself.  It 
towered  in  massive  outlines  over  a  hundred  feet  high, 
built  of  rough  granite  and  shiny  quartz  blocks  set  in 
concrete,  swinging  out  in  a  great  semicircle,  its  flanks 
resting  upon  the  naked  rock  of  the  hills.  Directly  in 
front  of  him  he  saw  a  door,  doubtless  stolen  genera 
tions  ago  during  a  raid  into  India.  For  it  was  made  of 
a  single,  solid,  age-darkened,  adz-hewn  teak  slab,  with 
dowels  that  fitted  into  a  fretted  ivory  frame.  No  Af 
ghan  hand — clumsy  except  with  martingale  and  tem 
pered  steel — had  carved  this  door.  No  Afghan  hand 
had  fashioned  the  bossed,  jewel-crusted  silver  plaque 
set  in  the  center.  But  it  was  Afghan  carelessness  which 
had  let  the  door  warp,  which  had  caused  the  delicate 
bayonet  lock  to  crack  away  from  the  wood,  leaving 
room  for  a  narrow,  nervous  hand  to  slip  inside  and 
finger  the  bolt. 

The  hadji  sucked  in  his  breath.  His  fingers  moved 
noiselessly.  Another  short  jerk  and  the  bolt  would 
slide  from  its  groove — 

He  stood  quite  still,  his  heart  beating  like  a  hammer. 

Faint,  from  the  other  side  of  the  door,  came  a  rustle 
of  silken  garments,  the  noise  of  bare  feet  pattering 
away.  The  zenana,  the  women's  quarter,  doubtless,  he 
thought ;  and  there  would  be  an  old  nurse  about,  with 
sharp  ears  and  shrill,  lusty  tongue. 


REPRISAL  41 

He  shut  his  teeth  with  a  little  dry  click.  His  heart 
felt  swollen,  as  if  he  had  washed  it  in  brackish  water, 
and  he  asked  God — it  seemed  a  personal  issue  between 
him  and  God — if  he  should  be  cheated  of  his  revenge 
because  an  old  woman,  thin  of  sleep,  was  rummaging 
about  the  zenana  in  search  of  charcoal  and  hubble- 
bubble  and  Latakia  tobacco  spiced  with  rose  water  and 
grains  of  musk. 

And,  steadily,  as  he  waited,  his  finger  immobile  on 
the  bolt  of  the  door,  undecided  what  to  do,  the  sun  was 
rising,  striking  the  jagged  cliffs  with  dusted  gold, 
tumbling  broken-rayed  into  the  courtyard  and  drink 
ing  the  newly  thawed  snow.  Already  the  east  was 
flushing  with  pink  and  orange  as  the  mists  drifted 
through  the  valley,  shearing  a  glittering  crimson  slice 
from  the  morning  sun.  Already,  looking  nervously 
over  his  shoulder,  he  saw  down  the  path  one  of  the  Red 
Chief's  peasants  carrying  a  rough,  iron-tipped  milking 
yoke  across  his  shoulders.  Still  he  stood,  undecided, 
ears  and  eyes  tense. 

The  thousand  noises  of  the  waking  day  were  about 
him.  Somewhere  a  tiny  koel  bird  was  gurgling  and 
twittering.  A  little  furry  bat  cheeped  dismally.  A  pea 
cock-blue  butterfly  flopped  quick — quick  as  the  shadow 
of  a  leaf  through  summer  dusk.  A  mousing  owl  rus 
tled  in  the  byre  thatch. 

The  stallions  whinnied.  There  was  a  metallic  buzz 
ing  of  flies  around  a  gnarled  siris  tree. 

Then,  through  the  drowsy  canticle  of  waking  day, 
straight  through  the  cheeping  and  rustling  and  whinny 
ing  and  buzzing,  the  hadji  heard  another  sound — a  cry 
• — faint,  then  louder,  decreasing,  then  stabbing  out 
sharp  and  distinct :  "Father !" 

A  human  cry,  calling  for  human  help;  rising  to  an 


42  ALIEN  SOULS 

intolerable  note  of  appeal,  half  choked,  accompanied 
by  a  rattling  and  crackling  of  steel,  a  crunching  and 
stamping  and  snorting — curious,  flat,  dragging  noise — 
and  for  a  moment  the  hadji's  heart  was  as  still  as  freez 
ing  water.  "Father !"  came  the  cry  again,  and  again : 

"Fa "   cut   off   in   mid-air.     Like   his   son's   last 

cry,  the  cry  of  a  dead  soul  trying  to  span  the  gulf  of 
consciousness  to  the  living  heart! 

Then  once  more  the  snorting  and  stamping,  the  steely 
jar,  coming  from  the  stables  of  the  blooded  horses. 

The  hadji  gulped  his  fear  and  looked. 

Beyond  the  stunted  garden  he  saw  a  little  curly,  red- 
tinged  bullethead  peep  above  the  wall,  a  small  brown 
leg  stretching  up,  the  heel,  helpless,  foolish,  trying  to 
find  hold  on  the  smooth  stone  coping.  Once  more  the 
cry,  agonized — the  little  head  jerking,  the  little  heel 
slipping — a  soft  thud  .  .  .  and  the  hadji,  the  hair 
on  his  neck  bristling  as  though  Death  had  whispered 
in  his  ear,  ran  across  courtyard  and  garden.  He 
cleared  the  stone  wall  at  a  jump. 

Inside,  at  the  open  door  of  the  stables,  he  saw  the 
Red  Chief's  son,  a  small,  huddled  bundle,  the  neck 
strangely  twisted,  the  hands  grasped  clawlike  about 
the  left  front  fetlock  of  a  slate-blue,  mottled  stallion. 
It  was  clear  to  the  hadji  what  had  happened. 

The  boy  had  sneaked  out,  very  early,  to  take  a  look 
at  the  Kabuli  stallion  which  his  father  had  lifted  from 
Jehan  Tugluk  Khan.  He  had  tried  to  undo  the  steel 
chain  by  which  the  horse  was  fastened.  The  animal 
had  become  frightened,  had  reared  and  plunged  and 
kicked ;  the  boy  had  become  entangled  in  the  steel  halter, 
had  tried  to  jerk  himself  free;  the  stallion  had  become 
more  frightened  than  ever. 

"Patience,  little  Moslem.     Patience,  little  brother!" 


REPRISAL  43 

said  the  hadji.  He  approached  the  stallion  sidewise, 
hand  held  high  and  open  to  show  that  he  carried  neither 
bit  nor  martingale,  soothing  with  soft  voice,  then  with 
cunning  palm,  rubbing  the  high,  peaked  withers,  the 
soft,  quivering  muzzle,  the  tufted  ears,  leaning  for 
ward  and  blowing  warm  into  the  dilated  nostrils,  finally 
loosing  the  steel  halter  chain. 

The  headstall  dropped.  The  stallion  jumped  back, 
and  the  little  boy  fell  on  the  ground,  flopping  gro 
tesquely — and  something  reached  out  and  touched  the 
hadji's  soul,  leaving  the  chill  of  an  undescribable  un 
easiness. 

He  bent  to  pick  the  boy  up.  The  little  body  lay  still, 
lifeless. 

He  looked.  He  saw  a  blue  mark  across  the  lad's 
windpipe  where  the  steel  chain  had  pressed — and  he 
thought  that  his  own  son  was  dead,  and  that  dead  was 
the  Red  Chief's  son.  He  thought  that  the  hand  of  man 
had  killed  the  former,  the  hand  of  God  the  latter,  thus 
evening  the  score. 

But — was  the  score  even? 

For  a  full  minute  he  considered. 

His  mind  resisted  from  the  spontaneous  passivity 
bred  by  long-continued  meditations  on  Peace.  But  his 
hand  surrendered  to  the  brain's  subconscious,  driving1 
will.  His  hand  acted. 

He  drew  the  dagger  from  the  waist  shawl.  He  cut 
across  the  blue  mark  which  the  steel  chain  had  graved 
on  the  boy's  windpipe,  obliterating  it  with  torn  flesh 
and  a  rush  of  blood.  He  left  the  dagger  sticking  in 
the  wound.  His  name  was  cut  in  the  ebony  hilt.  The 
Red  Chief  would  find,  and  read,  and — yes ! — thus  the 
score  would  be  even! 

The  hadji  never  knew  how  he  reached  safety.     He 


54  ALIEN  SOULS 

had  a  vague  memory  of  a  sentinel  challenging  him,  of 
a  bullet  whistling  above  his  head,  of  how  he  went  down 
the  path  scudding  on  his  belly  like  a  jackal  to  the  reek 
of  carrion.  He  remembered  how,  as  he  reached  the 
valley,  the  western  tower  of  the  Raven's  Station  seemed 
like  a  spire  away  on  the  world's  rim: — a  spire  of  hope 
and  lost  hope.  He  remembered  the  sudden  gusts  of 
snow  coming  down  like  hissing  spears,  with  the  moon 
reeling  above  him  through  the  clouds  like  a  great, 
blinding  ball  of  light  and  with  a  lonely  southern  peak 
pointing  at  the  mute  stars  like  a  gigantic  icicle,  frozen, 
austere,  desolate. 

He  remembered  vaguely  how  he  traveled  day  and 
night,  day  and  night,  and  it  was  only  gradually,  slowly, 
as  his  mind  jerked  free  from  fleshly  thrall  and  buffeted 
its  road  back  through  the  mists  of  passion  to  God's 
Peace,  that  there  came  to  him  knowledge  of  why  he 
was  fleeing  from  that  thing  in  the  glitter  of  the  hills  as 
from  a  thing  accursed. 

It  was  not  fear  of  the  Red  Chief.  Nor  was  it  re 
morse  that  he  had  mutilated  the  dead  body.  For  the 
hadji  was  an  Afghan,  and  there  was  no  worth  nor 
dignity  to  him  in  a  lifeless  thing. 

What  weighed  on  his  soul,  like  a  sodden  blanket,  was 
the  doubt  of  what  he  would  have  done  had  he  found 
the  Red  Chief's  son  alive. 

He  had  gone  to  the  Raven's  Station  to  kill.  But 
would  he  have  killed?  Would  he  have  broken  God's 
covenant  of  Peace — and,  killing,  would  he  have  done 
right  or  wrong? 

The  doubt  was  on  his  soul  like  a  stinging  brand ;  and 
so  the  hadji  took  stick  and  wooden  bowl  and  lived  on 
alms  and  went  through  the  scorched  Indian  plains, 


REPRISAL  45 

( 

from  shrine  to  shrine,  seeking  release  from  doubt, 
release  from  memory. 

He  did  bodily  penance,  gradually  subduing  his  phys 
ical  Self.  He  submitted  to  the  ordeal  of  fire,  walking 
barefoot  through  the  white-hot  charcoal,  uncovering 
his  shaven  head  to  the  burning  fire  bath.  And  he  felt 
not  the  pain  of  the  body.  Only  his  soul  trembled  to  the 
whip  of  doubt. 

Then  he  met  a  Holy  Man  from  Gujrat  who  told  him 
that  to  clear  his  vision  and  fatten  the  glebe  of  under- 
stanfling  he  must  do  penance  with  his  head  hanging 
downward.  True,  the  other  was  a  Hindu  infidel  whose 
gods  were  a  monkey  and  a  flower.  But  he  himself  was 
a  Sufi,  an  esoteric  Moslem,  taking  the  best  of  all  creeds 
and  despising  none,  and  he  did  as  the  fakir  told  him. 

He  swung  with  his  head  to  the  ground  and  shut  his 
eyes.  When  he  opened  them  again  he  saw  all  upside 
down,  and  the  sight  was  marvelous  beyond  words.  THe 
blue  hills  had  lost  their  struggling  height  and  were  a 
deep,  swallowing,  mysterious  void.  Against  them  the 
sky  stoojd  out,  bold,  sharp,  intense,  immeasurably  dis 
tant;  and  the  fringe  of  clouds  at  the  base  of  the  sky 
seemed  a  lake  of  molten  amber  with  billows  of  tossing 
sacrificial  fire. 

He  gazed.  He  gazed  himself  into  stupefaction.  But 
his  memory  remained:  an  inky  scrawl  across  his  soul. 

"For  memory,"  said  the  hadji,  "is  not  of  the  body, 
but  of  the  soul!" 


THE  HOME-COMING 

YAR  KHAN  was  off  to  his  own  country  in  the  Month 
of  Pilgrimages.  He  broke  the  long  journey  at  Bok 
hara,  to  buy  a  horse  for  the  trip  South,  to  exchange 
his  Egyptian  money  for  a  rupee  draft  on  a  Hindu 
banker  in  Afghanistan,  and  to  buy  sweets  and  silks 
for  the  many  cousins  in  his  native  village. 

He  had  left  there  sixteen  years  before,  a  child  of 
seven,  when  his  father,  a  poor  man,  but  eager  for 
gain,  and  sensing  no  chance  for  barter  and  profit  in 
the  crumbling  basalt  ridges  of  the  foot-hills,  had  gone 
West — to  Cairo.  There  he  and  his  father — the  mother 
had  died  in  giving  him  birth — had  lived  all  these  years ; 
all  these  years  he  had  spent  in  that  city  of  smoky 
purple  and  dull  orange,  but  never  had  he  been  of 
Cairo.  The  tang  of  the  home  land  had  not  left  him; 
always  his  heart  had  called  back  to  the  sweep  and 
snow  of  the  hills,  and  he  had  fed  his  love  with  gossa 
mer  memories  and  with  the  brave  tales  which  his 
father,  Ali  Khan,  told  him  when  the  homesickness  was 
in  his  nostrils  and  when  the  bazaar  gold  of  Cairo 
seemed  gray  and  useless  dross. 

Of  gold  there  had  come  plenty.  Ali  Khan  had  pros 
pered,  and  in  his  tight  little  shop  in  the  Gamalyieh,  the 
Quarter  of  the  Camel-Drivers,  he  had  held  his  own 
with  the  Red  Sea  traders  who  meet  there,  and  cheat 
and  fight  and  give  one  another  the  full-flavored  abuse 

of  near-by  Asia. 

46 


THE  HOME-COMING  47 

Yar  Khan  had  lived  the  haphazard  life  of  Eastern 
childhood,  with  no  lessons  but  those  of  the  crowded, 
crooked  streets  and  an  occasional  word  of  prosy  Ko 
ranic  wisdom  from  some  graybeard  among  his  father's 
customers.  When  he  had  reached  his  fifteenth  year, 
manhood  had  come — sudden  and  a  little  cruel  as  it 
comes  to  Asians.  On  that  day,  his  father  had  taken 
him  into  the  shop,  and,  with  a  great  gesture  of  his  lean 
arms,  had  pointed  at  the  dusty  confusion  of  his  stock- 
in-trade;  at  the  mattings  full  of  yellow  Persian  to 
bacco,  the  pipe  bowls  of  red  clay,  the  palm-leaf  bags 
containing  coffee  and  coarse  brown  sugar,  the  flat  green 
boxes  filled  with  arsenic  and  rhubarb  and  antimony 
and  tafl  and  sal-ammoniac. 

"He  of  great  head  becomes  a  chief,  and  he  of  great 
feet  a  shepherd,"  Ali  Khan  had  said,  ridiculing  Fate 
after  the  manner  of  the  hill-bred.  "Thou  art  blood  of 
my  blood.  From  this  day  on,  thou  wilt  be  a  trader, 
and  thou  wilt  prosper.  Gold  will  come  to  thy  hands — 
unasked,  like  a  courtezan." 

Ali  Khan  had  been  right.  Together,  father  and  son 
had  prospered.  They  had  heaped  gold  on  clinking 
gold,  and  of  gold,  too,  had  been  the  father's  endless 
talk,  praising  the  cold  metal  at  yawning  length,  dwell 
ing,  as  it  were,  on  the  outer  husk  of  things ;  and  when 
Yar  Khan's  softer  mind  rebelled  at  the  hard  philos 
ophy  Ali  Khan  would  laugh  and  say:  "Thou  art 
right,  little  son.  Gold  is  the  breath  of  a  thief.  Gold 
is  a  djinn.  Gold  is  an  infidel  sect.  But — "with  a 
shrewd  wink — "give  gold  to  a  mangy  dog — and  the 
people  will  call  him  Sir  Dog.  For  gold  is  strength !" 

It  was  only  in  the  evenings,  when  they  had  put  up 
the  heavy  wooden  shutters  of  their  shop  and  were  re 
turning  to  their  tiny  whitewashed  living-house  in  the 


48  ALIEN  SOULS 

Suk-en-Nahassim,  that  often  something  like  a  veil  of 
discontent  would  fall  over  the  older  man's  shrill  greed. 

"Gold  buys  this — and  that — and  this,"  he  would  say, 
in  a  hushed  voice,  pointing  at  some  rich  Pasha's  silent, 
extravagant  house,  with  its  projecting  cornices,  its 
bulbous  balconies  of  fretted  woodwork  supported  by 
gigantic  corbels  and  brackets,  and  the  dim  oil  lamp 
glimmering  above  the  carved  gate — "gold  buys  this — 
and  no  more !" — and  when  a  woman  of  the  Egyptians 
— a  woman  swathed  from  head  to  foot,  with  only  the 
eyes  showing — crossed  his  path,  he  would  cry,  "They 
do  not  wear  veils,  at  home,  in  the  hills." 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  he  would  break  into  harsh 
laughter  and  add,  "But  veils  cost  gold,  Yar  Khan,  and 
we  sell  veils  .  .  .  thou  and  I —  in  the  Gamalyieh!" 

Yar  Khan  understood  that  his  father  was  homesick. 
But  when  he  begged  him  to  return  to  the  hills  Ali 
Khan  would  reply  with  the  proverb  which  says  that 
the  cock  leaves  home  for  four  days  only — and  returns 
a  peacock.  He  would  add,  with  a  crooked  smile :  "Of 
what  use  the  peacock's  green  tail  on  the  dung-hills  ?  Of 
what  use  the  gold  of  Egypt  on  the  barren  rocks?" — • 
and  then  again  the  talk  would  be  of  seasons  and  of 
the  gold  which  comes  with  the  shifting  seasons'  swing. 

But  Yar  Khan  would  not  understand  why  his  father 
did  not  return  to  the  hills,  why  he  preferred  to  live  in 
Cairo — between  the  dusty  shop  and  the  tiny  white 
washed  living-house — up  and  down,  up  and  down,  like 
a  buffalo  putting  his  shaggy  back  to  the  water-wheel — 
heavy  and  slow  and  blind.  He  only  knew  that  his 
father  was  eating  out  his  heart  with  longing  for  the 
chill,  dark  pines;  and  his  own  homesickness — though 
his  memories  were  vague — would  be  upon  his  shoulder 
like  a  stinging  brand. 


THE  HOME-COMING  49 

Now  his  father  was  dead.  There  was  no  lack  of 
gold;  and  once  more  the  thought  of  home  had  come 
to  Yar  Khan  like  a  sudden  inrush  of  light  after  a 
long,  leaden,  unlifting  day.  He  was  off  to  his  own 
country  in  the  Month  of  Pilgrimages. 

The  old  priest  whom  he  met  at  Bokhara — mumbling 
his  prayers  and  clicking  his  rosary  beads  in  front  of 
the  little  pink  mosque  of  Bala-i-Hava — told  him  that 
there  was  a  certain  significance  to  the  date — told  him, 
too,  after  the  thin,  pretentious  manner  of  Moslem  hier 
archy,  that  he  did  not  know  if  the  omen  be  bad  or 
good — "For,"  he  added,  "there  is  no  power  nor 
strength  save  in  Allah  the  Most  High!"  and  Yar 
Khan,  who  had  lost  most  of  his  respect  for  holy  men 
in  the  blue,  slippery  mud  of  the  Nile,  snapped  his 
fingers  with  gentle  derision,  threw  the  whining  gray- 
beard  a  handful  of  chipped  copper  coins,  and  turned 
to  the  bazaars  to  buy  presents  for  his  cousins. 

He  bought  and  bought — embroidered  silks  from 
Khiva  and  from  far  Moscow,  pink  and  green  sweet 
meats  from  across  the  Chinese  border,  and  Persian 
silver  filigree  for  the  young  girls.  He  paid  royally, 
without  bargaining;  for  to-day  he  was  master — buy 
ing,  not  selling — and  the  smooth  touch  of  the  gold 
pieces  as  he  took  them  from  his  twisted  waistband  and 
clinked  them  down  on  the  counter  was  pleasant.  It 
was  like  prophecy :  of  conquest  and,  in  a  way,  of  free 
dom.  He  swung  the  furry  goat-skin  bag  which  held 
his  purchases  over  his  supple  shoulders  and  turned 
toward  the  open  market-place  to  buy  a  horse. 

Rapidly  he  passed  through  the  bunched  crowds — 
crowds  of  all  Asia — solemn,  impassive-looking  Bok- 
harans,  gently  ambling  along  on  gayly  caparisoned 
mules;  straight-backed  gipsies,  swaggering  with  the 


50  ALIEN  SOULS 

beggars'  arrogance  of  their  race;  melancholy  Turko 
mans  in  immense  fur-caps  and  plaited  duffle  coats; 
Greeks,  cunning-faced  and  sleek  and  odiously  hand 
some;  green-turbaned,  wide-stepping  shareefs,  the 
aristocracy  of  Islam ;  anxious-eyed,  tawdry  Armenians ; 
Sarts  bristling  with  weapons  and  impudence ;  here  and 
there  a  bearded  official  of  the  Ameer's  household,  with 
his  air  of  steely  assurance,  superb  self-satisfaction 
hooded  under  his  sharply  curved  eyelids — and  once  in 
a  while  a  woman,  in  white  from  head  to  foot,  a  restful 
relief  to  the  blaze  of  colors  all  around. 

Yar  Khan  looked,  but  he  felt  no  desire  to  linger. 
For  him  there  was  no  fragrance  in  the  blossom-bur 
dened  gardens,  no  music  in  the  song  of  the  koil  bird, 
no  beckoning  in  the  life  of  the  streets — motley  and 
shrill  and  busy — with  shaggy  Northern  dromedaries 
dragging  along  their  loads  and  looming  against  the 
sky-line  like  a  gigantic  scrawl  of  Asian  handwriting, 
with  the  hundreds  of  tiny  donkeys  tripping  daintily 
under  their  burdens  of  charcoal  and  fiery-colored  vege 
tables,  with  numbers  of  two-wheeled  arbas  creaking 
in  their  heavy  joints — with  all  the  utter,  riotous  mean 
ing  of  trade  and  barter  and  gold.  He  bought  a  horse, 
a  dun  stallion  with  high,  peaked  withers,  and  rode  out 
of  the  Southern  Gate  without  turning  around.  Down 
the  long  south  trail  he  rode — toward  the  little  steel- 
gray  village  perched  on  a  flat,  circular  mountain  top 
which  is  called  The  Hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat  in  the 
Afghan  tongue. 

He  pulled  into  Balkh,  white  as  a  leper  with  the 
dust  of  the  road,  traded  his  stallion  for  a  lean  racing 
camel,  which  had  a  profusion  of  blue  ribbons  plaited 
into  the  bridle  as  protection  against  the  djinns  and 
ghouls  of  the  desert — a  superstition  of  his  native  land 


THE  HOME-COMING  51 

at  which  he  smiled,  quite  without  malice — filled  his 
saddle-bags  with  slabs  of  grayish  wheaten  bread  and 
with  little  hard,  golden  apricots,  and  was  off  again, 
crossing  the  Great  River  at  the  shock  of  dawn.  He 
watched  it  for  a  long  time;  for,  springing  up  in  the 
Hindu  Kush,  storming  through  the  granite  gorges  of 
the  lower  ranges,  it  was  to  him  a  messenger  of  the 
home  he  had  dreamt  of  and  longed  for  these  many 
years.  So  he  watched  the  impetuous,  green-blue  flood 
bearing  down  to  the  soft  Persian  lowlands  with  a 
shout  and  a  roar,  dashing  against  the  bank  as  though 
trying  to  sweep  it  away  bodily,  then  swirling  by  in 
two  foaming  streams  on  either  side.  And  from  the 
cool  waters  there  rose  a  flavor  of  that  utter,  sharp 
freedom  which  was  to  him  the  breath,  the  reason, 
the  soul  of  the  hills  as  he  remembered  them. 

Yar  Khan  gave  a  deep,  throaty  laugh  of  sheer  joy. 
"Home — and  the  salt  of  the  home  winds !"  he  thought, 
and  he  thought  the  words  in  the  Afghan  tongue,  the 
harsh  tongue  of  his  childhood  which  he  had  nearly 
forgotten  in  the  gliding,  purring  gutturals  of  the  Cairo 
streets.  Impatience  overtook  him. 

"Home,  lean  daughter  of  unthinkable  begetting!" 
he  shouted  at  the  snarling  camel;  he  tickled  its  soft 
muzzle  with  the  point  of  his  dagger,  urging  it  on  to 
greater  speed ;  and  on  the  fifteenth  day  out  of  Bokhara, 
the  thirtieth  out  of  Cairo,  he  found  himself  in  the 
valley  below  The  Hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat. 

He  opened  wide  his  lungs  and  filled  them  with  the 
snow-sharp  air,  as  though  to  cleanse  himself  from  the 
shackling  abominations  of  that  far  Egypt  where  he 
had  lived  the  years  of  his  youth.  Already  night  had 
dropped  down  from  the  higher  peaks ;  and  in  the  pur 
ple  depths  of  the  cloudless  sky  hung  a  froth  of  stars 


52  ALIEN  SOULS 

that  sparkled  with  the  cold-white  gleam  of  diamonds. 

He  jerked  the  camel  to  its  knees  and  dismounted. 
But  that  night  he  did  not  stop  to  make  camp,  nor  did 
he  sit  long  at  his  meal. 

For  above  him,  like  a  dream  of  freedom,  stretched 
the  rock-perched  village  of  his  birth,  and  every  minute 
spent  here  in  the  valley  was  like  another  wasted  year. 
So  he  sat  down,  picked  up  a  handful  of  mulberries 
and  ate  them;  and  when  a  shaggy,  skulking  Afridi 
came  wandering  into  the  valley,  a  wire-bound  Snider 
in  his  arms,  and  doubtless  out  to  take  a  late  shot  at  a 
blood-enemy,  Yar  Khan  stopped  him  with  a  shouted 
friendly  greeting  and  offered  him  the  camel  as  a  pres 
ent.  For  he  was  anxious  to  tread  the  jagged  rocks 
of  The  Hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat,  and  he  knew  that  no 
plains-bred  animal  could  find  foothold  on  the  narrow, 
winding  path  which  led  to  the  mountain  top.  Often 
his  father  had  described  the  path  to  him,  every  foot 
of  it — too,  savoring  every  foot  of  it  in  the  telling. 

The  price  of  the  camel?  "Masha,  illah!"  he 
thought,  "my  father  bartered  the  years  of  his  man 
hood  for  a  waistbandful  of  coined  gold;  let  me  then 
throw  away  a  handful  for  a  minute  of  home!"  and 
he  put  the  bridle  in  the  Afridi's  eager  hand,  crooking 
two  fingers  in  sign  of  a  free  present. 

"Manda  na  bash — May  your  feet  never  be  weary !" 
the  grateful  Afridi  shouted  after  Yar  Khan,  who  was 
already  speeding  up  the  dark  path,  the  heavy  goat 
skin  bag  punctuating  each  step,  the  joy  in  his  heart  as 
keen  as  a  new-ground  sword. 

The  night  was  a  pall  of  deep  brown,  and  the  road 
twisted  and  dipped  and  turned.  But  he  walked  along 
steadily  and  sure-footed,  though  he  had  not  seen  the 
hills,  except  in  dreams,  since  he  was  a  lisping  babe 


THE  HOME-COMING  53 

riding  astride  his  nurse's  stout  hips.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  if  the  flame  in  his  heart  was  lighting  up  the  un 
charted  night,  as  if  the  thought  of  home  was  serving 
him  for  an  unerring  beacon  among  the  slippery  timber- 
falls  and  the  hidden,  crumbling  rock-slides;  on  he 
pushed,  toward  the  higher  peaks  cooled  with  the  wail 
ing  Northern  thunder,  and,  just  before  the  break  of 
day,  turning  a  massive  rock  crowned  with  a  stunted 
lone  pine,  he  came  upon  the  village  which  huddled, 
dwarfed  and  shapeless,  among  the  jagged  granite 
bowlders — stretching  on  toward  the  North  like  a 
smudge  of  sooty  gray  below  the  glimmering  band  of 
the  eternal  snows. 

"O  Allah!"  he  mumbled,  softly.  "O  Thou  Raiser 
of  the  flags  of  increase  to  those  who  persevere  in 
thanking  Thee — I  praise  Thee  and  I  bless  and  salute 
our  Lord  Mohammed,  the  excelling  in  dignity!"  and 
again,  with  rising,  high-pitched  voice,  "O  Allah!" — 
letting  loose  all  his  long-throttled  love  and  longing  in 
one  great  cry. 

Then  quite  suddenly  he  was  silent.  He  drew  back 
a  step.  He  listened  intently.  There  was  a  faint  stir 
of  dry  leaves,  a  soft  crackling  of  steel  and,  the  next 
moment,  a  squat  form  robed  in  sheep-skins  loomed 
up  from  a  clump  of  thorn-trees;  a  wide-mouthed 
smooth-bore  was  pressed  against  Yar  Khan's  chest, 
and  a  raucous  voice  bade  him  state  his  name,  the  names 
of  his  father  and  grandfather,  his  race,  his  clan,  his 
destination  and  his  reasons  for  coming  by  night,  un 
asked  and  unheralded,  to  The  Hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat. 

"Speak  quick,  cow  maiming- jackal  spawn!"  com 
manded  the  Afghan,  with  the  ready  abuse  of  the  hills, 
and  Yar  Khan  laughed  delightedly.  This  was  what 
he  had  expected,  what  he  had  hoped  for,  this  greeting 


54  ALIEN  SOULS 

out  of  the  wilderness ;  this  savage,  free  call  of  his  own 
people,  his  own  blood — cousin  and  cousin  again 
through  frequent  intermarriage. 

Smiling,  he  looked  at  the  face  of  his  cousin — for 
cousin  he  must  be — which  was  like  a  bearded  smear 
of  gold-flecked  red  in  the  dim  light  of  the  rising  sun. 
He  stated  whence  he  came  and  why  and  whereto, 
winding  up  by  saying,  "I  am  Yar  Khan,  the  son  of 
Ali  Khan,  grandson  of  Abderrahman  Khan — the 
Afghan — the  Usbek-Khel,"  and,  unknown  to  himself, 
a  note  of  savage  pride  had  crept  into  the  telling  of 
name  and  pedigree. 

The  other  eyed  him  suspiciously,  undecided  what 
to  do.  He  had  heard  of  Ali  Khan,  the  man  who  had 
left  the  hills  and  who  had  gone  South,  in  search  of 
gold.  And  this — he  clutched  his  rifle  with  steady 
hands — this  smooth-faced,  leaky-tongued  stranger 
claimed  to  be  his  son.  But  perhaps  this  night-prowler 
was  a  spy  sent  by  the  Governor  of  Kabul  to  look  into 
the  matter  of  certain  bullocks  that  had  strayed  away 
from  the  valley.  Still,  Ali  Khan  had  had  a  son — 
and — 

Suddenly  he  gave  a  shrill,  kitelike  whistle,  and,  a 
moment  later,  a  second  sentinel  dropped  from  a  rock 
crest.  Came  a  whispered  colloquy  between  the  two 
villagers,  another  rigorous  cross-examination  as  to 
Yar  Khan's  pedigree  and  antecedents,  and  finally  the 
new-comer  declared  himself  satisfied. 

He  walked  up  to  Yar  Khan,  his  right  hand  raised 
high  in  sign  of  peace. 

"I  am  Jehan  Hydar,"  he  said,  "the  son  of  Shujah 
Ahmet,  and  I  give  thee  peace — "  and  with  a  slight 
laugh  he  added,  "O  Egyptian !" 

A  great  rage  rose  in  Yar  Khan's  throat.     Often, 


THE  HOME-COMING  55 

in  the  past,  people  had  called  him  Egyptian.  There 
was  that  gray-haired  Englishwoman  who  had  come  to 
his  father's  shop,  year  after  year  during  the  cool  sea 
son,  in  search  of  scarabs  and  damaskeened  brass;  al 
ways  had  she  addressed  him  as  "my  little  Egyptian," 
and  he  had  not  minded  it.  But  this  was  different, 
somehow.  Rash,  bitter  words  crowded  on  his  lips,  but 
he  suppressed  them.  He  was  home — home! — and  he 
would  not  mar  the  first  day  with  the  whish  and  crackle 
of  naked  steel.  Better  far  to  turn  away  ridicule  with 
a  clear,  true  word. 

"I  am  not  an  Egyptian,  Jehan  Hydar,"  he  replied, 
"but  an  Afghan  and  cousin  to  thee — cousin  to  all 
this !" — making  a  great  gesture  which  cut  through  the 
still  air  like  a  dramatic  shadow  and  which  took  in  the 
frowning  gray  hills,  the  huddled  squat  houses,  and 
the  deep-cleft  valley  at  his  feet;  and  as  the  other 
grudgingly  admitted  the  relationship,  he  swung  his 
goatskin  bag  from  his  shoulders,  opened  it,  and  groped 
among  the  presents  he  had  bought  in  the  bazaars  of 
Bokhara.  For  his  heart  seemed  suddenly  filled  to 
overflowing  with  the  fine,  impulsive  generosity  of 
youth. 

"Here,  cousin  mine,"  he  laughed,  "see  what  I  have 
brought  thee  from — " 

"Peace,  peace!"  interrupted  the  other,  impatiently; 
"the  night  is  for  the  sleep  of  the  sleepers,  not  for  the 
babble  of  the  babblers,"  and,  motioning  Yar  Khan  to 
follow,  he  led  him  to  a  low  stone  hut  and  bade  him 
enter. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  flickered  a  charcoal  fire 
in  an  open  brazier,  and  there  was  no  furniture  except 
a  water  jar  and  an  earthen  platform  covered  with 
coarse  rugs  and  sheepskins.  Jehan  Hydar  pointed  to 


56  ALIEN  SOULS 

it  without  a  word  and  left  the  hut,  the  tip  of  his  steel 
scabbard  bumping  smartly  against  the  hard  ground. 

Such  was  the  home-coming  of  Yar  Khan,  the  son 
of  Ali  Khan;  and,  as  he  stretched  himself  on  the 
earthen  platform  and  gathered  the  covers  about  him, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  faint  flavor  of  disappointment 
[They  had  accepted  him,  those  two,  but  there  had  been 
no  joy  in  the  accepting,  no  generosity,  no  quick,  warm 
hearted  friendship;  and  they  were  his  cousins,  blood 
of  his  blood  and  bone  of  his  bone — and  he  had  longed 
for  them  so ! 

For  their  sake  he  had  left  Cairo  and  the  smooth 
gold  of  Cairo ;  for  their  sake  he  had  traveled  the  many 
miles,  riding  till  his  spurs  were  red  and  his  hands 
galled  with  the  pull  of  the  reins  and  his  saddle  broken 
across  the  tree. 

And  they — Jehan  Hydar  and  the  other?  Why, 
they  had  accepted  him  as  a  man  accepts  salt  to  his 
meat,  and  they  had  sneered — a  little. 

He  drew  himself  up  on  his  elbow  and  looked  out 
of  the  tiny  window  which  was  set  low  into  the  wall. 
A  stark  black  pine  stood  spectrally  in  the  haggard, 
indifferent  light  of  the  young  day.  He  shivered. 

But  again  the  impulsive  magnanimity  of  youth 
came  to  his  rescue,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  these 
men  were  his  cousins,  hill-bred,  their  whole  life  a 
rough  fact  reduced  to  rougher  order.  And  he?  He 
was  home,  and  nothing  else  mattered.  Henceforth 
he,  too,  would  be  a  hill-man,  free  and  unshackled. 
The  weaver  of  his  own  life  he  would  be,  running  the 
woof  and  warp  of  it  as  he  willed,  away  from  whee 
dling  barter,  away  from  the  crowded,  fetid  bazaars 
and  the  shrill  trade  cries  of  the  market-place.  To 
morrow  he  would  greet  his  clan,  his  family,  and  they 


THE  HOME-COMING  57 

would  ask  him  about  his  dead  father,  about  Cairo, 
and — yes — they  would  ask  him  about  himself  and  give 
him  a  fair  measure  of  honor.  For  he  was  coming 
among  them,  not  as  a  beggar  asking  for  asylum  and 
bread  because  of  kinship,  but  as  a  rich  man  bearing 
gifts  bought  with  the  red  gold  of  Egypt. 

"Home — Allah  be  praised!"  he  thought  as  he 
dropped  into  the  dreamless  sleep  of  youth. 

"Ho,  cousin  mine!  Ho,  great  lord  out  of 
Egypt!"  .  .  . 

The  voice  seemed  to  come  from  a  far  distance,  and 
Yar  Khan  thought  that  he  was  dreaming,  perhaps  of 
his  cousin,  Jehan  Hydar — he  who  had  addressed  him 
as  "Egyptian" ;  so  he  stretched  his  body  luxuriously 
for  a  second  sleep — and  then  he  felt  a  hand  touch  his 
shoulder  and  shake  him  gently. 

At  once  he  was  wide  awake.  It  was  high  day,  with 
the  cool  golden  mountain  sun  already  in  the  upper  arc 
of  the  heavens  and  weaving  a  lacy,  ever-shifting  pat 
tern  into  the  drab  emptiness  of  the  little  hut. 

"Ho,  cousin  mine !"  again  came  the  voice  from  the 
head  of  the  bed.  Slowly  he  raised  himself  upright. 
He  turned  and  he — saw.  A  young  girl  was  standing 
there,  looking  down  at  him  with  a  smile,  her  narrow 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  And  Yar  Khan  blushed  and 
closed  his  eyes. 

For  be  it  remembered  that  all  his  life  he  had  lived 
in  Egypt  and  that,  while  he  had  seen  foreign  women 
walk  about  unveiled  as  well  as  old  Moslem  hags  who 
were  considered  too  old  to  spread  the  soft  scent  of 
temptation,  he  had  never  seen  a  young  girl  of  his  own 
race  and  faith  without  a  veil.  Nor  had  he  ever  spoken 
to  such  a  one.  He  had  dreamt  of  it — as  boys  dream — 


58  ALIEN  SOULS 

and  there  had  been  his  father's  tales  of  hill  customs. 
Dreams  and  tales !  And  now  he  had  seen — 

For  a  moment  he  felt  oddly  checked  and  baffled. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  what  bereft  him 
of  speech  was  not  embarrassment,  but  this  new  fact 
of  different  customs  and  manners  slowly  awakening  in 
his  consciousness.  Quite  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him 
that  his  great  yearning  for  the  hills  had  grown  out 
of  a  far  deeper  foundation  than  he  had  yet  thought 
of;  subconsciously  he  felt  that  this  young  girl  was  at 
the  root  of  it,  and,  with  the  thought,  with  the  gather 
ing  conviction  of  it,  he  opened  wide  his  eyes  and  looked 
at  her. 

She  was  tall  and  lean,  with  black  hair  which  fell 
in  heavy  braids  over  either  shoulder,  a  low  white  fore 
head,  the  reddest  of  lips,  and  huge  gray  eyes  set  deep 
below  boldly  curved  brows.  She  was  not  beautiful. 
But  there  was  about  her  something  best  described  as 
a  deep,  luminous  vivacity — something  like  an  open, 
clashing  response  to  the  free  life,  the  wild  life,  the 
clean  life — the  hills.  And  she  was  his  cousin? 

He  formed  the  last  thought  into  a  wondering  ques 
tion,  and  her  reply  held  both  confirmation  and,  some 
how,  the  flavor  of  prophecy.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am 
Kumar  Jan,  the  daughter  of  Rahmet  Ullah,  chief  of 
The  Hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat — I  am  cousin  to  thee. 
Thus  were  our  fathers  cousins  and  our  grandfathers 
and  our  grandfathers'  fathers — cousin  aye  mating  with 
cousin,  according  to  the  rules  of  the  hills." 

As  he  still  stared  at  her,  wide-eyed,  unwinking,  she 
asked  him  why  he  looked  at  her.  "Am  I  then  a  danc 
ing  girl  of  the  South  or,"  she  added,  mockingly,  "hast 
thou  never  seen  a  girl  in  all  thy  life?" 

And  when  Yar  Khan  replied  truthfully  that  he  had 


THE  HOME-COMING  59 

not,  she  was  out  of  the  hut  with  a  silvery  laugh  and 
the  parting  advice  to  make  haste  and  rise — "For  thy 
clan  is  waiting  for  thee  in  full  durbar!" 

A  few  minutes  later  he  left  the  hut  and  stepped  out 
into  the  village  street,  his  goatskin  bag  over  his  shoul 
der.  A  snow-bitten  wind  was  drifting  down  from  the 
higher  peaks,  and  the  harried  sun  shivered  and  hid 
among  the  clouds. 

But  Yar  Khan,  South-bred  though  he  was,  did  not 
feel  the  sleety,  grained  mountain  chill ;  his  heart  seemed 
flushed  with  a  hot  June  prime,  and  he  raised  his  right 
hand  with  an  exuberant  gesture  as  he  stepped  into  the 
council  of  the  villagers  who  were  squatting  around  a 
flickering  camp-fire — behind  every  man  his  wife,  un 
veiled,  proudly  erect,  her  hand  on  her  lord's  shoulder, 
and  everywhere  the  sturdy  children  of  the  hills :  boys 
of  twelve  and  thirteen  who  were  already  trying  to 
emulate  the  fierce,  sullen  swagger  of  their  sires,  little 
bold-eyed  girls,  fondling  crude  dolls  made  of  stones 
and  bits  of  string  and  wood,  and  wee  babes,  like  tiny 
gold-colored  puff-balls,  playing  about  their  fathers' 
knees  or  munching  wheaten  cakes  with  the  solemn  sat 
isfaction  of  childhood. 

"I  have  come — "  began  Yar  Khan,  and  then  he  was 
silent  and  his  heart  sagged  like  a  leaden  weight.  For 
no  sound  of  greeting  rose  from  the  villagers,  and  the 
bearded  faces  which  were  turned  toward  him  seemed 
impassive  and  cruel  and  slightly  mocking. 

Yar  Khan  felt  like  an  intruder;  there  was  some^ 
thing  like  a  crash  in  his  brain,  and  suddenly  he  realized 
that  he  was  longing  for  Cairo,  for  the  busy,  motley 
crowds,  the  gay  cries  of  bazaar  and  market-place,  and 
the  dancing,  red-flecking  sunlight  of  the  Southern  sky. 

He  stood  still,  embarrassed,  undecided  what  to  do; 


60  ALIEN  SOULS 

and  then  a  clear  voice  called  to  him.  "Ho,  cousin !" — 
it  was  the  voice  of  Kumar  Jan. 

He  looked. 

She  was  standing  behind  a  massive,  white-bearded 
man  who  was  squatting  at  the  head  of  the  durbar, 
evidently  her  father,  Rahmet  Ullah,  chief  of  the  tribe ; 
and  Yar  Khan's  flagging  spirits  rose,  and  he  walked 
up  to  Rahmet  Ullah,  kissing  the  hem  of  his  robe  in 
sign  of  fealty. 

Then — and  often  in  his  thoughts,  since  he  had  rid 
den  out  of  Bokhara,  had  he  enacted  the  scene — he 
threw  the  goatskin  bag  at  the  feet  of  the  chief  so  that 
the  gifts  which  he  had  brought  tumbled  out  on  the 
barren  gray  ground. 

"Presents  for  all  of  you,  my  cousins,"  he  cried; 
"silks  from  Bokhara  and  sweetmeats  from  China  .  .  ." 
— suddenly  he  was  silent.  A  hot  red  flushed  his 
cheeks. 

For  the  uncomfortable  thought  came  to  him  that  he 
was  praising  the  gifts  as  he  had  praised  bartered  wares 
across  his  father's  dusty  counter  in  the  Gamalyieh; 
and  there  was  a  tense  pause  while  some  of  the  men 
and  women  stooped  leisurely  and  fingered  the  presents, 
with  now  and  then  a  short  grunt  of  wonder  at  the 
touch  of  the  glittering  Northern  silks,  but  with  never  a 
word  to  him — of  thanks  or  joy  or  pleasure. 

Even  Kumar  Jan,  to  whom  he  had  given  a  fine 
Khivan  shawl  with  his  own  hands,  took  the  offering 
in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  She  threw  it  about  her  shoul 
ders  without  a  word,  and  Yar  Khan  was  hurt  and  sad 
dened;  his  soul  seemed  charged  to  the  brim  with  an 
overpowering  loneliness,  and  terror  came  to  his  heart — 
the  terror  of  the  mountains,  of  the  far  places  which 
he  did  not  understand. 


JHE  HOME-COMING  61 

His  lips  quivered.  He  was  about  to  turn,  to  leave 
The  Hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat,  to  rush  down  the  steep 
path  and  to  take  the  trail — the  long  trail,  to  Bokhara, 
to  Cairo — when  the  voice  of  Rahmet  Ullah  cut  sharply 
into  his  reverie. 

The  chief  welcomed  him  into  the  tribe  with  a  few 
simple  words,  and,  indicating  the  whole  assembly,  he 
added :  "These  be  thy  cousins,  Yar  Khan,  son  of  Ali 
Khan !  Their  laws  be  thy  laws,  their  customs  thy  cus 
toms,  their  weal  thy  weal,  their  woes  thy  woes,  their 
feuds  thy  feuds!  Thou  art  blood  of  our  blood  and 
bone  of  our  bone!  Whatever  is  ours  is  thine !" — and, 
one  after  the  other,  the  villagers  rose  and  walked  up 
to  him. 

They  greeted  him,  pressing  palm  against  palm, 
coldly,  impassively,  with  short,  rasping  "Salaam 
Alekhum's"  and  now  and  then  a  graybeard's  querulous 
reflection  as  to  manners  learned  among  foreigners  and 
infidels — reflections  spiced  and  sharpened  with  Afghan 
proverbs. 

"If  a  man  be  ugly  what  can  the  mirror  do?"  croaked 
a  battle-scarred  grandfather  who  walked  heavily  with 
the  aid  of  a  straight-bladed  British  cavalry  saber  doubt 
less  stolen  during  a  raid  across  the  Indian  border ;  an 
other  chimed  in  with  the  even,  passionless  statement 
that  the  cock  went  to  learn  the  walk  of  the  goose  and 
forgot  his  own,  while  a  third — gaunt  old  warrior  with 
the  bilious  complexion  of  the  hashish-smoker — in 
quired  of  the  world  at  large  why  it  was  that  in  the 
estimation  of  some  people  the  strings  of  their  cotton 
drawers  rivaled  in  splendor  the  Ameer's  silken 
breeches. 

The  girls  and  the  children  tittered  at  the  last  re 
mark;  and  when  the  younger  tribesmen  came  up  to 


62  ALIEN  SOULS 

salute  their  cousin  there  were  open  sneers,  and  finally 
a  loud,  insulting  question  from  Jehan  Hydar  who 
asked  Yar  Khan,  pointing  at  his  peach-colored  Cairene 
waistcoat,  if  he  had  ever  considered  what  a  pig  could 
do  with  a  rose-bottle. 

Yar  Khan  flushed  an  angry  purple.  This — he 
thought — was  the  fair  measure  of  honor  which  he  had 
expected,  this  the  home-coming — and  he  had  traveled 
the  many  weary  miles,  he  had  bought  presents  for  them 
purchased  with  the  bitter  gold  of  exile,  he  had  given 
them  of  his  best  in  loyalty  and  desire  and  free-handed 
generosity ! 

He  was  silent.  He  felt  Kumar  Jan's  eyes  resting 
upon  him,  wonderingly,  expectantly — and  what  could 
she  expect?  He  had  gone  to  the  hills  in  search  of 
freedom,  and  now  he  was  forfeit  to  the  customs  of 
the  hills.  He  had  gathered  the  swords  of  humiliation 
under  his  armpits,  and  the  feeling  of  it  was  bitter  and 
vain. 

He  looked  up.  Jehan  Hydar  was  still  standing  in 
front  of  him,  a  mocking  smile  playing  about  his  thin 
lips  and  in  his  oblique  eyes  a  light  like  a  high-eddying 
flame. 

"Cousin,"  he  drawled,  and  the  simple  word  held  the 
soft  thud  of  a  hidden,  deadly  insult,  "cousin  to  me, 
to  all  of  us !  Yet  do  I  declare  by  the  teeth  of  Allah," 
here  his  eyes  sought  those  of  Kumar  Jan,  who  stood 
close  by,  her  whole  attitude  one  of  tense  expectancy, 
"yes!  I  declare  by  mine  own  honor  that  thou  seem- 
est  more  like  an  Egyptian,  a  foreigner,  an  eater  of 
fish  from  the  South — of  stinking  fish,  belike,"  he 
added  as  an  insulting  after-thought;  and  there  was 
mocking  laughter  all  around,  high-pitched,  cruel, 


THE  HOME-COMING  63 

rasping;  but  clearest  and  sharpest  rose  the  laughter 
from  Kumar  Jan's  red  lips. 

It  was  then  that  Yar  Khan's  good-humor  suddenly 
broke  into  a  hundred  splintering  pieces.  His  rage 
surged  in  deadly  crimson  waves.  He  forgot  that 
these  men  were  his  blood-kin.  He  forgot  the  yearn 
ing  of  the  swinging  years.  He  only  saw  the  sneer 
which  cleft  Jehan  Hydar's  bold  face;  he  only  heard 
the  laughter  which  bubbled  from  Kumar  Jan's  lips, 
and  he  stepped  up  close  to  the  other. 

"Better  dried  fish  in  the  South,"  he  cried,  "than  a 
naked  dagger  in  the  hills,"  and  his  knife  leaped  out 
with  a  soft  whit-whit.  But  he  had  no  time  to  strike, 
to  stain  his  soul  with  the  blood  of  kin;  for,  even  as 
he  spoke,  even  as  the  knife  left  the  scabbard,  a  dozen 
stout  arms  were  about  him,  hugging  him  close — and 
there  were  laughter  and  frantic  shouts  of  joy. 
Bearded  faces  touched  his ;  the  children  crowded  about 
him  and  hailed  him  with  shrill  cries ;  the  women  bowed 
before  him  with  a  clank  and  jingle  of  silver  orna 
ments  ;  and  again,  clearest,  sharpest,  rose  Kumar  Jan's 
laughter — but  this  time  it  was  not  the  laughter  of 
derision. 

Suddenly,  Yar  Khan  understood.  They  had  tested 
his  manhood  after  the  manner  of  the  hills  and  they 
had  not  found  him  wanting ;  and  so,  when  he  walked 
away  from  the  camp-fire  with  Kumar  Jan  by  his  side, 
the  hard,  pent  rage  which  had  bitten  into  his  heart 
disappeared  like  chaff  in  the  meeting  of  winds. 

He  was  home,  home! 

He  said  to  himself  that  these  men  were  his  kin, 
that  their  woes  were  his  woes,  their  laws  his  laws, 
their  feuds  his  feuds — and  he  knew  why  there  had 
been  no  thanks  when  he  had  emptied  his  goatskin  bag 


j6$  ALIEN  SOULS 

at  the  feet  of  the  chief.  Yes!  Whatever  was  his 
was  theirs — thus  the  law  of  the  hills — and  then  some 
thing  in  his  heart  seemed  to  flame  upward. 

He  looked  at  Kumar  Jan. 

She,  too,  had  spoken  of  the  law  of  the  hills — the 
law  which  says  that  cousin  shall  aye  mate  with  cousin; 
and  she — she  was  his  cousin. 

And  then,  thinking  epically  as  hillmen  do  in  mo 
ments  of  great  emotion — he  said  to  himself  that  the 
stroke  and  slash  of  his  dagger  were  hers,  that  hers 
was  his  brain,  hers  the  eloquence  of  his  tongue,  hers 
the  strength  of  his  body  and  the  golden  dreams  of  his 
soul. 

He  gripped  her  hand — and  he  knew  that  he  had 
come  home. 


THE  DANCE  ON  THE  HILL 

BEHIND  him  the  Koh  Haji-Lal,  the  "Mountains  of 
the  Red  Pilgrim,"  closed  like  a  ragged  tide.  In  front 
of  him  the  snowy  peaks  of  the  Gul  Koh  pointed  to 
the  skies  in  an  abandon  of  frozen,  lacy  spires,  while 
ten  miles  the  other  side  Ghuzni  dipped  to  the  green 
of  the  valley  with  an  avalanche  of  flat,  white  roof 
tops,  huddled  close  together  beneath  the  chill  of  the 
Himalayas.  The  English  doctor  lived  there,  mixing 
his  drugs  and  scolding  his  patients  in  the  little  house 
at  the  end  of  the  perfume-sellers'  bazaar,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  great  bronze  Mogul  gun  which  both 
Afghans  and  Lohani  Sikhs  called  the  Zubba-zung. 

Mortazu  Khan  thought  of  him  as  he  came  down  the 
mountain-side,  his  rough  sheepskin  coat  folded  across 
the  smalt  of  his  back  to  give  free  play  to  his  lungs; 
his  short,  hairy  arms,  sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbows, 
moving  up  and  down  like  propeller-blades.  He 
walked  with  the  suspicious  step  of  the  hill-bred  who 
reckons  with  inequalities  of  ground,  lifting  his  rope- 
soled  sandals  gingerly  over  timberfalls  and  crumbling 
granite  slides,  putting  on  extra  speed  when  he  crossed 
a  wide  spread  of  rust-brown  bracken  that  covered  the 
summer  hue  of  the  slope  like  a  scarf,  again  warily 
slowing  as  he  forded  a  swift  little  stream  bordered 
with  scented  wild  peppermint  and  chini  stalks  and 
gray,  spiky  wormwood. 

But  straight  through  he  kept  up  a  steady  clip,  aver- 

65 


58475     f«HS«« 


66  ALIEN  SOULS 

aging  w.ell  over  five  miles  an  hour,  up-hill  or  down. 

There  was  peace  with  the  Suni  Pathans  who 
squatted  on  the  upland  pastures  and  so  he  had  left 
his  rifle  at  home,  carrying  only  a  broad-bladed  dagger. 
He  was  glad  of  it,  for  a  rifle  meant  weight,  weight  in 
the  hills  meant  lack  of  speed,  and  speed  was  essential. 
All  last  night  his  wife  had  moaned  terribly,  and  the 
village  wise-woman,  at  the  end  of  her  remedies,  had 
told  him  that  he  needed  the  English  hakim's  skill  be 
fore  the  day  was  out  if  he  wanted  his  wife  to  live: 
his  wife,  and  the  little  son — he  hoped  it  would  be  a 
son — whom  she  was  bringing  into  the  world  with 
such  anguish. 

Three  hours  he  figured  to  Ghuzni.  Three  back. 
Rather  a  little  more,  since  the  foreigner  was  not  hill- 
bred.  Thus  he  would  safely  reach  his  village  before 
the  sun  had  raced  to  the  west;  and  by  night  his  wife 
would  hold  another  little  son  in  her  arms. 

Of  course  there  would  be  a  wrangle  with  the  hakim, 
Mortazu  Khan  thought — and  smiled  at  the  thought. 

First  was  spoken  the  ceremonious  Afghan  greet 
ing,  cut  short  by  the  Englishman's  impatient,  "Why 
haven't  you  come  sooner?"  and  his  reply  that  his  wife 
was  a  stout  hill  woman  who  had  borne  children  be 
fore  this;  also  that  he  had  called  in  the  wise-woman. 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"She  gave  her  fish  sherbet  to  cool  her  blood.  She 
put  leeches  on  her  chest.  She  wrote  a  Koran  verse 
on  a  piece  of  paper,  lit  it,  and  held  it  smoking  under 
Azeena's  nose — " 

And  then  the  hakim's  furious  bellow :  "Of  all  the 
damned — !  Good  God!  man,  let's  hurry,  or  your 
wife'll  go  out  before  we  get  there!" 

At  the  end  of  the  imagined  scene  Mortazu  Khan's 


(THE  DANCE  ON  THE  HILL  67 

\ 

smile  twisted  to  a  lop-sided  frown.  The  doctor 
would  be  rightly  angry.  He  should  have  gone  to  him 
yesterday.  He  should  not  have  called  in  the  wise- 
woman.  He  had  given  her  five  rupees —  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  To-morrow  he  would  make 
her  eat  stick  and  force  her  to  give  back  the  money — 

He  increased  his  speed  as  he  reached  the  edge  of 
the  slope  where  it  flattened  to  a  rock-studded  plateau, 
with  here  and  there  little  gentians  peeping  from 
granite  splits  and  opening  their  stiff,  azure  stars.  He 
bent  and  picked  one  to  put  in  his  turban  for  good 
luck,  and  as  he  straightened  up  again  he  smelled  a 
familiar  odor  and  saw  two  small,  reddish  eyes  glar 
ing  at  him  from  a  clump  of  thorny  wild  acacia. 

He  stood  quite  still.  Instinctively  he  fingered 
across  his  left  shoulder  for  the  rifle — which  was  not 
there.  Then  he  walked  on.  At  this  time  of  the  year 
the  blue-gray,  bristly  haired  mountain  bears  were  not 
dangerous.  They  were  busy  filling  their  sagging 
bellies  with  prangus  leaves  and  mulberries  against  the 
lean  season.  He  would  leave  the  bear  alone,  he  de 
cided,  and  the  bear  would  leave  him  alone. 

But  when  a  moment  later  he  heard  the  animal  give 
tongue — a  low,  flat  rumble  growing  steadily  into  a 
sustained  roar,  then  stabbing  out  in  a  squeaky  high 
note  that  sounded  ridiculously  inadequate,  given  the 
brute's  size — Mortazu  Khan,  without  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  jumped  sideways  like  a  cat,  cleared  a  heap 
of  dry  twigs,  and  made  straight  for  a  stout  fir-tree 
that  towered  in  lanky  loneliness  a  dozen  yards  away. 
He  reached  it  and  jumped  behind  it.  His  hands 
gripped  the  rough,  warty  bark. 

"Some  cursed  fool  of  a  foreigner  must  have  burned 
her  pelt  with  a  bullet  of  pain."  He  spoke  aloud,  after 


68  ALIEN  SOULS 

the  manner  of  hillmen.     "And  now  Bibi  Bear  has  a 
grouch — " 

He  completed  the  sentence  just  as  the  bear  tore  out 
of  the  acacia  clump  and  made  after  him  with  a  huge, 
plumping,  clumsy  bound  and  a  whickering,  whinnying 
roar. 

"Allah  be  thanked  because  He  gave  me  nimble 
feet!"  ejaculated  Mortazu  Khan.  "And  praise  to 
Him  furthermore  because  He  made  this  tree  and 
caused  it  to  grow  thick !"  He  finished  his  impromptu 
prayer  as  he  slid  rapidly  to  the  west  side  of  the  fir 
while  the  bear  lunged,  big  flat  paws  clawing,  gaping 
mouth  showing  the  crimson  throat,  the  chalk-white 
teeth,  the  lolling,  slobbering  tongue,  ears  flat  on  the 
narrow  head — like  the  head  of  a  great  snake. 

The  bear  missed  the  hillman  by  half  a  yard  and, 
carried  away  by  her  weight  and  impetus,  she  landed, 
paws  sprawling,  head  down,  on  a  bed  of  ochre  moss 
studded  with  needle-sharp  granite  splinters.  Her 
pointed  muzzle,  bumped  smartly  against  the  ground, 
was  torn  by  the  ragged  stone  edges,  and  plowed  a 
painful  furrow  through  the  moss  so  that  it  rose  to 
either  side  in  a  velvety  cloud. 

She  bellowed  her  disappointment  and  fury,  sat  on 
her  hunkers,  slid  back  half  a  dozen  yards,  using  her 
fat  hams  with  the  speed  and  precision  of  roller-skates, 
then  returned  to  the  attack,  launching  her  blue-gray 
bulk  straight  for  the  west  side  of  the  tree. 

"Ahi!  Pig,  and  Parent  of  Piglings!"  shouted 
Mortazu  Khan,  as  he  rapidly  made  the  half -circle 
around  the  tree  to  the  opposite  side. 

"Waughrrrr-yi-yi!"  said  the  bear,  very  low  in  her 
throat  and  with  a  certain  hurt,  childish  intonation. 

"Pig !"  repeated  the  hillman,  wiping  the  sweat  from 


THE  DANCE  ON  THE  HILL  69 

his  forehead,  while  the  bear,  who  had  again  landed 
head  down  on  the  ground,  wrinkled  her  ugly,  thin- 
skinned  nose  where  the  warm  blood  was  trickling 
down  into  her  open  mouth. 

Mortazu  Khan  watched  carefully.  He  knew  that 
he  was  safe  as  long  as  he  kept  the  tree  between  him 
self  and  the  brute,  knew,  too,  that  he  was  the  more 
agile  of  the  two. 

Not  that  the  bear  was  slow,  but  her  body  was 
longer,  her  bulk  larger.  She  could  not  make  short 
turns  in  a  whizzing,  flying  half-circle  like  the  hillman. 
She  could  charge — with  a  thousand  pounds  of  bunched 
muscle  and  brutal  meat — but  when  she  missed,  the 
best  she  could  do  was  to  use  her  nose  and  forepaws 
as  brakes,  bump  back,  twist  in  a  sharp  angle  right  or 
left,  according  to  what  side  of  the  tree  Mortazu  Khan 
had  slid — and  return  to  the  charge.  And  always  the 
man,  keeping  tight  to  the  fir,  got  ahead  of  her,  while 
the  bear,  squealing  like  an  angry  boar,  landed  on  the 
ground,  hurting  her  delicate  nose  and  clawing  with 
her  paws  till  the  moss  was  shredded  to  rags  and  the 
sand  beneath  seemed  to  look  up  with  scared,  yellow 
eyes. 

Little  stones  clattered  mockingly.  Twigs  crackled 
and  whined.  Somewhere  from  the  higher  branches 
a  noise  trembled — a  gurgling,  throaty  noise.  Doubt 
less  the  cry  of  a  buvra  kurra,  a  black  tree  grouse, 
thought  the  hillman,  cursing  the  bird  because  of  its 
place  of  security,  cursing  the  bear  because  of  her 
wickedness. 

"Dog !  Jew !  Drunkard !  Illegitimate  cow !"  he 
yelled  as  he  danced  around  the  tree,  left  and  right  and 
left  again,  his  fingers  scraping  the  bark  and  the  bark 
scraping  his  fingers — "Away!  away!" — Bibi  Bear 


70  ALIEN  SOULS 

after  him,  roaring,  fuming,  and  always  missing  her 
aim. 

The  bear's  little,  narrow-lidded  eyes  glowed  like 
charcoal  balls.  The  hair  along  her  back  was  thick 
and  taut,  her  ears  flat.  There  was  something  ludi 
crous  in  her  appearance,  too — something  which  spoke 
of  iron,  sinister  resolution. 

Plump!  Down  on  her  nose,  paws  furrowing  the 
ground!  Twist  and  squat  and  twist. 

She  tried  to  learn  from  Mortazu  Khan,  tried  to 
whiz  her  bulk  in  shorter  circles,  to  charge  straight  at 
her  foe.  But  always  she  missed.  Always  she  had 
to  brake  with  head  and  paws  and  make  sharp  angles 
while  the  man  danced  away. 

"Infidel!  Parent  of  naughty  daughters!"  shouted 
Mortazu  Khan  as  the  bear  missed  him  by  less  than 
a  foot. 

His  hands  were  hot  and  raw.  His  heart  was  cold 
with  fear.  For  back  across  the  hills  was  the  mother 
of  his  sons — and  then  he  cursed  again  the  little  bird 
which  gurgled  in  the  branches.  He  could  not  see  it. 
But  the  gurgle  was  becoming  loud,  insistent,  blending 
curiously  and  malignantly  with  the  bear's  wicked 
bellow. 

Underneath  his  duffle  shirt  sweat  rolled  in  little  icy 
balls.  His  feet  hurt.  Moss  had  been  around  the 
base  of  the  tree,  but  he  had  worn  great  holes  in  it, 
then  long  furrows  and  grooves.  Now  the  whole 
cover  of  moss  was  trampled  away,  and  he  was  dancing 
on  the  naked  ground.  One  of  his  sandals  had  split 
the  heel-rope  and  had  flown  away  and  out,  while  he 
had  stepped  through  the  other  so  that  it  was  around 
his  ankles.  His  toes  were  bleeding — 

And  Azeena  waited ! 


THE  DANCE  ON  THE  HILL  71 

But  what  could  he  do  with  his  bare  hands,  without 
his  rifle?  The  dagger?  He  could  throw  it — yes! 
And  what  then?  One  does  not  kill  a  mountain  bear 
with  a  single  thrust  of  steel.  So  he  kept  whizzing 
around  the  tree,  and  his  thoughts  whizzed  along,  his 
fears,  his  hopes — and  then,  quite  suddenly,  the  bear 
changed  her  tactics. 

"Alrrrh — whoof — airrh!"  she  said  with  low,  rum 
bling  dignity. 

"Wheet-wheet!"  came  the  echo  from  the  branches 
of  the  tree  where  the  cursed,  feathery  thing  was  roost 
ing  in  safety. 

And  Bibi  Bear  rose  on  her  hind  feet,  fir  needles 
and  moss  sticking  to  her  pelt,  belly  sagging  loosely, 
perspiration  rising  from  her  nostrils  in  a  gray  flag  of 
steam.  Straight  toward  the  tree  she  walked,  fore- 
paws  wide  extended  as  if  to  embrace  the  fir  and  the 
miserable  being  who  was  clinging  to  it  for  dear  life. 

Something  like  a  slobbering  grin  curled  the  brute's 
black,  leathery  lips,  and  Mortazu  Khan  watched.  His 
skin  seemed  to  shrink.  Blue  wheels  whirled  in  front 
of  his  eyes.  A  hammer  beat  at  the  base  of  his  skull. 

Ahi!  There  was  Azeena — who  would  not  live  out 
the  day  unless.  .  .  . 

"Allah!"  he  said.  "It  is  not  I  who  shall  be  a 
widower  to-night,  but  Azeena  who  shall  be  a  widow !" 
— and  his  knife  flashed  free  while  the  bear  came  on, 
slow,  ponderous,  thinking  in  her  ugly,  twisted  brain 
that  all  would  be  over  in  two  crimson  minutes  if  she 
could  only  tear  the  man  away  from  the  protecting  tree. 

Mortazu  Khan  knew  it,  too.  "Assassin !"  he  cried. 
"Base-born  and  lean  bastard!" 

"Waughree!"  replied  the  bear. 

She  came  on  without  haste,  leaned  smack  against 


T2  ALIEN  SOULS 

the  tree,  and  tried  to  reach  around  it,  right  and  left, 
with  her  murderous  claws.  But  the  tree  was  too 
stout,  and  for  the  moment  the  hillman  was  safe. 

He  smiled.  Then  he  frowned.  For  the  sun  was 
rising  higher,  and  he  had  to  reach  Ghuzni — the  doc 
tor — and  back  yonder  Azeena  was  dying  .  .  . 

"Unclean  spawn  of  filth!"  he  cried.  "Large  and 
stinking  devil!" — and  quite  suddenly,  watching  his 
chance,  he  flashed  his  dagger  to  the  left.  He  brought 
down  the  point  with  speed  and  ferocity,  straight  into 
the  brute's  right  eye. 

Something  warm  and  sticky  squirted  up  his  arm. 
The  bear,  crazed  with  pain,  jumped  high  in  the  air 
like  a  rubber  ball,  came  down  again,  roaring,  squeal 
ing,  bellowing,  slid  lumberingly  to  the  left,  and  again 
Mortazu  Khan  resumed  his  dance  . 

But  this  time  it  was  another  dance.  This  time  the 
bear  had  no  sharp  angles  to  make.  Both  man  and 
beast  were  close  against  the  tree,  circling,  circling — 

i 

The  sun  rose  and  dipped.  Far  on  the  edge  of  the 
horizon  the  peaks  of  the  Gul  Koh  flushed  gold  and 
lavender. 

"Waughrrr!"  snorted  the  bear,  stamping  her 
clumsy  paws. 

"Wheet-wheet!"  chirped  the  echo  from  the  upper 
most  branches  of  the  fir,  silly,  mocking — and  safe! 
And  back  beyond  the  bracken-clad  slope,  Azeena  was 
dying  hard,  and  his  son  was  dying — dying  before  he 
was  born — because  Bibi  Bear  had  broken  the  truce  of 
the  fat  season. 

Mortazu  Khan  trembled  with  rage  and  fear.  But — 
away! — circling  the  tree,  escaping  the  murderous 
claws! 


JHE  DANCE  ON  THE  HILL  73 

He  did  not  jump.  No  longer  did  he  dance.  He 
seemed  to  stream,  to  flow,  like  a  liquid  wave,  his  body 
scrunched  into  a  curve  while  his  lungs  pumped  the 
breath  with  staccato  thumps.  Only  his  hand  was 
steady,  taking  crimson  toll  again  and  again,  and  the 
bear  followed,  roaring  like  forked  mountain  thunder. 
The  blood  on  her  huge  body  was  caked  with  dirt  and 
moss  until  the  wounds  looked  like  gray  patches  on 
a  fur  jacket. 

A  shimmering  thread  of  sun-gold  wove  through  the 
branches  and  dipped  low  to  see  what  was  happening. 
Far  in  the  east  a  crane-pheasant  called  to  its  mate. 
The  wind  soared  lonely  and  chilly. 

They  were  out  of  breath,  man  and  beast.  Momen 
tarily  they  stopped  in  their  mad  circling,  the  bear 
leaning  against  one  side  of  the  tree,  a  deep  sob  gur 
gling  in  her  hairy  throat,  the  blood  coming  through 
her  wounds  like  black-red  whips,  while  the  man  was 
huddled  against  the  opposite  side  as  tight  and  small 
as  he  could.  He  was  tired  and  sleepy.  His  right 
hand  felt  paralyzed,  but  still  it  gripped  the  dagger. 
He  knew  that  the  end  was  near,  knew  that  he  him 
self  must  hasten  it,  that  he  must  face  Bibi  Bear — face 
her  in  the  open — and  kill  or  be  killed.  For  back  yon 
der  was  Azeena,  and  the  minutes  were  slipping  by 
like  water. 

He  raked  together  the  dying  embers  of  his  strength. 
"Allah!"  he  mumbled.  "Do  thou  give  me  help!" — 
And  then  he  heard  again  the  cry  of  the  cursed, 
feathery  thing: 

"Wheet-wheet!" 

But  it  seemed  less  mocking  than  before,  more  in 
sistent,  as  if  the  bird,  too,  had  lost  its  sense  of  security, 
had  begun  to  fear  the  shaggy  murderer  below. 


74  ALIEN  SOULS 

Mortazu  Khan  looked  up.  Then  he  saw  it.  It  had 
dropped  to  a  branch  lower  down,  and  it  was  not  a 
bird —  It  was  round  and  toddling  and  fluffy  and 
blue-gray.  A  little,  fat  bear  cub  it  was;  and  then 
Mortazu  Khan  knew  why  Bibi  Bear  had  broken  the 
truce  of  the  fat  season,  and  a  certain  pity  and  under 
standing  came  to  the  hillman's  simple  heart. 

Here  he  was  fighting  for  his  wife,  his  unborn  son, 
and  he  said  to  himself  that  the  bear,  too,  was  fighting 
for  the  young  of  her  body,  for  the  thing  which  gave 
meaning  to  life.  And  it  was  without  hatred — with 
respect,  rather,  and  a  feeling  of  comradeship — that 
Mortazu  Khan  stepped  away  from  the  protecting  tree, 
deliberately  to  give  battle  in  the  open. 

The  bear  followed,  growling.  And  so  the  two  stood 
there,  confronting  each  other,  both  breathing  harc^ 
ready  to  leap,  ready  to  finish  the  fight. 

It  was  the  man  who  leaped  first.  For  the  fraction 
of  a  second  he  balanced  himself,  his  bleeding  toes 
gripping  the  ground.  Then  he  went  straight  into  the 
bear's  embrace,  the  point  of  his  dagger  ahead  of  him 
like  a  guidon.  His  lips  were  crinkly  and  pale,  his 
tongue  like  dry  saddle  leather,  his  eyes  cold  and  gleam 
ing.  But  straight  he  jumped,  and  straight  stabbed 
the  knife,  finding  the  brute's  pumping,  clamorous 
heart,  while  the  claws  met  across  his  shoulder-blades 
and  tore  a  furrow  down  his  back. 

Straight  to  the  heart!  With  every  ounce  of 
bunched  strength  and  despair,  and  as  the  bear,  in  mor 
tal  agony,  realized  her  steely  grip,  he  struck  again  and 
again  and  again.  But  there  was  no  hatred  in  the 
blows. 

"Ahi!"  he  sobbed,  as  the  bear  toppled  sideways  and 


75 

fell,  curling  up  like  a  sleeping  dog.  "Ahi!  Poor 
Bibi  Bear!  Brave  Bibi  Bear!" 

His  back  bled  and  hurt.  But  he  jerked  the  pain 
away  with  a  shrug  of  his  massive  shoulder.  The 
English  hakim  would  have  two  patients  instead  of 
one,  he  told  himself,  and,  dizzy,  a  little  depressed, 
he  turned  to  resume  his  walk  across  the  plateau. 

But  something  seemed  to  float  down  upon  his  con 
sciousness,  imperceptibly,  like  the  shadow  of  a  leaf 
through  summer  dusk,  and  he  stopped  and  returned 
to  the  fir-tree.  Standing  on  his  toes,  he  reached  up 
and  caught  the  toddling,  fluffy  cub  which  was  trying 
hard  to  back  up,  to  regain  the  security  of  the  higher 
branches. 

"Come,  little  Sheik  Bear !"  he  crooned  as  he  might 
to  a  frightened  child.  "Come!  There  is  room  for 
thee  in  the  house  of  Mortazu  Khan !  Room  and  food 
and  water — and  soon,  if  Allah  be  willing  and  the 
hakim's  medicine  strong,  a  little  man-child  to  play 
with  thee!" 

And,  the  cub  nuzzling  his  heaving  chest  with  a 
little  grunt  of  satisfaction,  Mortazu  Khan  walked  to 
ward  the  flat  roofs  of  Ghuzni,  leaving  behind  him  a 
thin  trail  of  blood,  but  hurrying,  hurrying. 


THE  RIVER  OF  HATE 

"THE  Wrath  of  the  Thunder  Gods,"  the  Kafiri  hill- 
men  called  the  river  that  dropped  to  the  western  plains 
of  Afghanistan  and  over  into  soft  Persia  in  a  suc 
cession  of  overlapping  falls  like  the  feathers  on  the 
breast  of  a  pouter  pigeon,  while  the  Afghan  nobles 
who,  armed  with  the  great,  carved  seal  of  the  Gov 
ernor  of  Kabul,  came  there  to  levy  the  quota  of  young 
men  for  the  Ameer's  army,  called  it  the  "River  of 
Hate." 

And  Kafiri,  as  well  as  Afghans,  spoke  the  truth. 

For,  during  three  months  of  the  year,  the  North 
wind  was  riding  a  wracked  sky  and  met  the  shock  of 
the  racing,  roaring  river,  and  the  thunder  crashed  from 
the  high  ranges,  splintering  the  young  pines,  occa 
sionally  taking  toll  of  human  life;  and  it  was  hate, 
even  more  than  the  swirling  breadth  of  the  river, 
which  divided  the  villages  that  squatted  on  either  bank. 

South  of  the  river,  the  Red  Village  lay  spotted  and 
threatening,  like  a  tiger  asleep  in  the  sun,  while  North 
the  flat-roofed  houses  of  the  White  Village  seemed 
snow  flakes  dropped  on  slabs  of  sullen  granite — as 
sullen  as  the  temper  of  the  people  when  they  looked 
across  and  saw  the  men  of  the  Red  Village  sweep  the 
whirlpool  of  the  Black  Rock  with  crude,  effective  net 
traps  made  of  jungly  rattan  and  hempen  ropes ;  when 
they  saw  the  catch  of  fat,  blue-scaled,  red-eyed  khirli 
fish  drawn  up  on  the  bank  and  flopping  in  the  quiver 
ing  light  like  dusky  flecks  of  sunshine. 

76 


LTHE  RIVER  OF  HATE  77 

The  Black  Rock  was  the  fortune  of  the  Red  Village. 

Forming  the  end  and  pinnacle  of  a  chain  of  ragged, 
slippery  stones  that  spanned  three-fourths  of  the 
river's  breadth  and  rose  and  fell  to  the  rise  and  fall 
of  the  water,  it  was  within  fifteen  feet  of  the  southern 
bank,  and  in  winter,  when  rain  had  been  heavy  in  the 
mountains  and  the  River  of  Hate  surged  up  a  man's 
height  in  a  couple  of  hours,  it  acted  like  a  natural  dam. 

But  in  summer,  when,  freed  from  snow,  the  higher 
range  limned  ghostly  out  of  the  purple-gray  distance 
and  drouth  shrunk  the  river,  the  Black  Rock  peaked 
to  a  height  of  thirty  feet  and  caused  the  water  to  drop 
into  a  great  whirlpool,  not  far  from  the  Red  Village, 
where  it  blossomed  like  a  gigantic  waxen  flower. 

Too,  it  is  in  summer  that  the  khirli  fish,  obeying 
their  ancient  tribal  customs,  come  from  their  spawn 
ing,  and  when  they  return  down  the  River  of  Hate 
on  their  way  to  the  Persian  Gulf,  they  are  tired  and 
weary  with  the  many  miles.  So  they  lie  down  to 
rest  in  the  bottom  of  the  whirlpool  of  the  Black  Rock 
where  the  fishing  rights,  by  immemorial  law,  antedat 
ing  the  law  of  the  Koran,  belong  to  the  people  of  the 
Red  Village;  and  the  villagers  catch  them  and  feast, 
while  the  men  of  the  White  Village  bemoan  their  fate 
and  take  the  name  of  Allah  and — if  the  Afghan  priests 
be  not  listening — the  names  of  various  heathen  gods 
decidedly  in  vain. 

But  they  do  not  fight  the  people  of  the  Red  Village, 
except  with  an  occasional  stone  or  stick  hurled  from 
ambush  and  not  meant  to  kill.  For  a  law  is  a  law. 

When,  after  seven  years'  service  in  the  Ameer's 
army — during  which  he  had  learned  to  shoot  straight, 
to  substitute  a  tall  black  fur  cap,  worn  rakishly  over 


78  ALIEN  SOULS 

the  right  ear,  for  the  greasy  shawl  turban  of  the 
Kafiri,  to  embroider  his  rough  hill  diction  with  flowery 
Persian  metaphor,  and  to  ogle  the  women  in  the 
bazaars — Ebrahim  Asif  received  word  that  his  father, 
Sabihhudin  Achmat,  had  died,  and  that  he  was  now 
chief  of  the  White  Village,  he  went  straight  to  the 
Governor  of  Kabul  and  asked  to  be  released  from 
service. 

"My  people  are  clamoring  for  me,"  he  added  in  a 
lordly  manner. 

The  Governor  saw  before  him  a  young  man,  not 
over  twenty-five,  of  a  supple  sweep  of  shoulders,  a 
great,  crunching  reach  of  arms,  a  massive  chest,  and 
a  dead-white,  hawkish  face  that  rose  up  from  a  black, 
pointed  beard  like  a  sardonic  Chinese  vignette.  He 
thought  to  himself  that  here  was  a  Kafiri,  a  turbulent 
pagan  hillman  indeed;  but  that  seven  years  in  Kabul 
must  have  put  the  Afghan  brand  upon  his  soul,  and 
that  he  might  be  a  valuable  ally  if  ever  his  lawless 
tribesmen  should  give  trouble — perhaps,  only  Allah 
knew !  as  a  raiding  vanguard  accompanying  an  invad 
ing  British  or  Russian  column,  as  the  little,  sniveling, 
dirt-nosing  jackals  accompany  the  tiger. 

"Your  prayer  is  granted,  Ebrahim  Asif,M  the  Gov 
ernor  said.  "Return  to  your  own  people — a  chief. 
And — "  he  smiled,  "also  remember  that  you  are  an  Af 
ghan,  and  no  longer  a  lousy  hillman !" 

"Yes,  Excellency!"  said  Ebrahim  Asif. 

On  the  second  day  out  of  Kabul  he  was  back  over 
the  borders  of  his  own  country.  On  the  third,  he 
saw  the  faint,  silvery  gray  mountain,  flung  like  a  cloud 
against  the  sky,  that  marked  the  western  limit  of  the 
White  Village. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth,  he  was  sitting  on  a 


[THE  RIVER  OF  HATE  79 

raised  earthen  platform  in  the  communal  council  hut 
of  the  village  where  his  ancestors  had  been  hereditary 
rulers  since  before  the  shining  adventure  of  Shikandar 
Khan,  he  whom  the  Christians  call  Alexander  the  Mace 
donian,  his  rifle  across  his  knees,  and  a  naked,  pot 
bellied  boy  of  ten  fanning  him  with  a  silver-handled 
yak  tail,  stolen  during  some  raid  into  Tibet.  He  was 
holding  a  perfumed,  daintily  embroidered  handkerchief 
to  his  nose. 

On  the  bare  mud  floor,  below  the  platform,  squatted 
the  men  of  the  village,  some  thirty  in  number,  in  a 
confused  heap  of  sun-and-dirt-browned  arms,  legs  and 
patched  multi-colored  garments. 

Ebrahim  Asif,  remembering  the  days  of  his  child 
hood  when  his  father  had  occupied  the  seat  of  chief 
which  to-day  was  his,  turned  slightly  to  the  left. 

Directly  in  front  of  him  squatted  an  old  man  whose 
name  was  Jarullah.  His  face  was  like  a  gnarled  bit 
of  deodar  wood  beneath  a  thatch  of  bristly,  reddish 
hair. 

Ebrahim  Asif  pointed  at  him. 

"Jarullah,"  he  said,  "you  are  the  oldest.  Let  me 
hear  what  wisdom,  if  any,  the  many  years  have 
brought  you." 

"It  is  not  money  we  want,"  muttered  Jarullah. 

Then,  embarrassed  he  knew  not  why,  he  checked 
himself.  His  roving  eyes  sought  his  knees  and  he 
coughed  apologetically,  until  a  young  man,  lean,  red- 
haired,  with  pock-marked  vulpine  features  and  bold 
gray  eyes,  stepped  forward,  pushed  Jarullah  uncere 
moniously  aside,  and  squatted  down  in  his  place. 

Over  his  shoulder,  he  pointed  through  the  doorway, 
at  the  River  of  Hate,  and  the  hissing  whirlpool  of  the 
Black  Rock,  and  beyond,  at  the  Red  Village,  that 


8o  ALIEN  SOULS 

seemed  stiff  and  motionless  in  the  quivering  heat  as  if 
forged  out  of  metal.  Only  at  the  bank  were  signs  of 
life — the  men  pulling  in  the  nets  sagging  with  their 
shimmering  load.  Occasionally,  a  high-pitched,  exult 
ant  yell  drifted  thinly  across. 

"Our  bellies  are  empty,  Chief/'  the  young  man 
whose  name  was  Babar,  said  sulkily,  "while  they — " 
he  spat — "the  people  of  the  Red  Village — " 

Ebrahim.  Asif  rose,  picked  up  his  rifle  by  the  shoulder 
strap,  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"The  old  feud,  eh?"  he  asked.  "The  feud  over  a 
potful  of  stinking  khirli  fish?  By  the  teeth  of  the 
Prophet — on  whom  peace — I  shall  spice  their  mid-day 
meal  with  a  couple  of  bullets  and  a  rich  sluicing  of 
blood!" 

But  Jarullah  stepped  into  his  path  and  laid  a  trem 
bling  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"There  is  the  law,  Chief!"  he  cried  in  a  cracked, 
excited  whine.  "The  fishing  rights  of  the  southern 
bank  belong  to  the  Red  Village.  Remember  the  law 
of  theKafiri!" 

"There  is  no  law  for  Afghans,"  smiled  Ebrahim 
Asif. 

"Right!"  shrieked  the  old  man.  "There  is  indeed 
no  law  for  Afghans!  But  you  are  a  Kafiri,  Chief. 
You  must  keep  sacred  the  ancient  law  of  the  tribes — " 
and  an  angry,  clucking  chorus  rose  from  the  squatting 
clansmen. 

"The  ancient  law!    The  ancient  law!" 

Ebrahim  Asif  was  utterly  astonished. 

Quite  instinctively  he  had  picked  up  his  rifle.  Quite 
instinctively  he  had  decided  to  send  a  few  bullets  whiz 
zing  to  the  opposite  shore.  It  would  be  perfectly  safe. 
For  the  only  firearms  that  ever  came  into  Kafiristan 


THE  RIVER  OF  HATE  81 

were  those  of  the  Ameer's  ruffianly  soldiers,  soldiers 
either  on  active  duty  or,  like  himself,  released  from 
service,  and  he  knew  that  for  many  years  past  no  man 
of  the  Red  Village  had  been  drafted  into  the  army. 

Thus  he  was  perfectly  safe  in  announcing  his  pres 
ence  to  them  with  a  charge  of  lead  and,  later  on,  of 
coming  to  terms :  a  fair  half  of  the  khirli  catch  to  his 
own  village — otherwise  bullets  and  blood. 

It  was  simple — as  sublimely  simple,  as  sublimely 
brutal  as  his  whole  philosophy  of  life. 

But  they  had  spoken  about  the  law — the  ancient 
law — 

The  young  man  with  the  pock-marked,  vulpine  face 
— Babar — had  seemed  the  most  manly  of  them  all. 

"What  do  you  say,  Babar?"  he  asked,  and  the  other 
mumbled  piously,  "It  is  the  law.  The  fishing  rights 
of  the  southern  bank  belong  to  the  Red  Village." 

Ebrahim  Asif  shook  his  head.  He  stalked  through 
the  doorway,  while  the  villagers  looked  after  him, 
stolid,  sullen.  He  walked  up  to  the  River  of  Hate. 

The  men  of  the  Red  Village  were  still  fishing,  peace 
ful,  undisturbed,  serenely  safe.  One  looked  up, 
squinted  against  the  light  with  sharp,  puckered  eyes, 
and  seemed  to  see  the  rifle  in  Ebrahim  Asif's  hand. 
But  he  paid  no  attention  to  it.  To  him,  too,  there 
was  the  ancient  law. 

And,  suddenly,  out  of  the  nowhere,  a  heavy  weight 
dropped  on  Ebrahim  Asif's  soul. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  "there  is  the  law — for  us 
Kafiri — "  and  he  tossed  the  rifle  into  the  swirling, 
foaming  water. 

Late  that  night,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  father's  hut, 
which  was  now  his,  scraps  of  memory  came  to  him. 
Piece  by  piece  he  put  them  together. 


82  ALIEN  SOULS 

He  remembered  how,  years  ago,  when  he  had  been 
a  naked,  sun-burned  child  with  a  red  turban  cloth 
wound  about  his  shaven  poll,  his  father,  Sabihhudin 
Achmat,  had  been  guide  to  a  Kashmere  rajah  who  had 
come  North  to  hunt  the  thick-pelted,  broad-headed 
tigers  that  drift  into  Kafiristan  in  the  wake  of  the 
Mongolian  snows.  The  rajah  had  brought  a  large 
retinue  of  servants,  and  one  evening  they  and  their 
master  and  his  father  had  whispered  together. 

They  had  set  to  work,  under  the  rajah's  guidance. 
All  night  they  had  worked,  with  little  Ebrahim  look 
ing  on  open-mouthed,  using  odd  bits  of  steel  and  wire 
taken  from  the  rajah's  voluminous  baggage,  and  wood 
and  stones  and  spliced  ropes  and  rattan. 

About  midnight  they  had  sneaked  out  of  the  house 
and  through  the  sleeping  village,  to  the  bank  of  the 
River  of  Hate,  carrying  between  them  a  strange  con 
trivance  that  seemed  round  and  heavy.  Hours  later, 
his  father  had  returned,  drenched  to  the  skin,  but 
triumphant. 

Today,  Ebrahim  Asif  knew  that  the  strange  con 
trivance  the  Kashmere  men  had  fashioned  that  night 
and  which  his  father  had  put  in  a  hole  of  the  Black 
Rock,  below  the  surface,  was  a  water  wheel  to  change 
the  main  current  of  the  whirlpool,  for  since  then  he 
had  seen  many  such  wheels. 

And  when  the  next  drouth  had  shrunk  the  river 
and  the  khirli  fish  had  returned  from  their  spawning, 
when  the  people  of  the  Red  Village  had  swept  the 
whirlpool  of  the  Black  Rock,  day  after  day,  they  had 
caught  no  more  than  a  lean  handful  of  skinny,  smelly 
dagger-fish,  while  the  men  of  the  White  Village,  won 
dering,  yet  obeying  their  chief's  command,  had  gone 
down  to  the  northern  bank  where  the  fishing  rights 


THE  RIVER  OF  HATE  83 

were  theirs  and  had  set  to  work  with  improvised  gear. 

The  catch  had  been  huge;  and  for  weeks,  they  had 
eaten  their  fill  of  khirli  spiced  with  turmeric  and 
sesame,  while  the  people  on  the  opposite  shore  had  be 
moaned  their  fate  and  had  rubbed  empty  wrinkled 
stomachs. 

Only  the  hereditary  chief  of  the  Red  Village,  Yar 
Zaddiq,  a  shrewd,  elderly  man,  over  six  feet  in  height, 
with  gray  hair  that  had  once  been  reddish-brown,  a 
biting  tongue  and  doubting,  deep  set  eyes,  had  sus 
pected  the  hand  of  man  and,  late  one  night,  when  the 
water  was  very  low,  had  swum  over  to  the  Black  Rock 
at  the  risk  of  his  life  and  had  investigated. 

He  had  called  for  help.  The  wheel  had  been  torn 
out,  and  a  few  days  later,  four  miles  up  the  river,  ac 
companied  by  several  of  his  clansmen,  he  had  chanced 
upon  Sabihhudin  Achmat  and  had  beaten  him  terribly. 

After  that,  there  had  been  no  more  catching  of 
khirli  fish  on  the  northern  bank,  and  the  old  hate  of 
White  Village  against  Red  had  grown  a  thousandfold. 

The  days  that  followed  were  drab  and  listless. 

Ebrahim  Asif  stalked  through  the  village  in  his  best, 
most  braggart  Kabuli  manner. 

But,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  aware  of  a 
strange  sensation  which,  had  he  been  a  westerner,  he 
would  have  correctly  analyzed  as  self-consciousness. 

He  said  to  himself  that  these  were  his  people,  that 
they  had  put  their  grievances  before  his  feet  trusting 
to  his  wisdom  and  strength — and  their  greatest  griev 
ance  was  the  matter  of  the  khirli  fish,  the  matter  of 
the  River  of  Hate.  Willing  and  ready  he  had  been 
to  help  them,  he  continued  his  thoughts  angrily,  but 
they  had  tied  his  hands  with  their  babble  about  the 


84  ALIEN  SOULS 

ancient  tribal  laws;  he  had  tossed  his  rifle  into  the 
water — and — what  did  they  want  him  to  do? 

They  supplied  him  with  food  and  tobacco  and  bhang 
as  was  his  right,  since  he  was  their  chief.  But  it  was 
all  done  grudgingly,  as  a  drab  matter  of  duty. 

Yet  there  was  little  open  complaint ;  just  an  under 
current  of  muttering  and  whining.  Only  the  young1 
man,  Babar,  put  it  into  words  one  day. 

"You  are  the  Chief,"  he  said.    "You  must  help  us !" 

Simple  enough  words.  But,  somehow,  they  seemed 
to  Ebrahim  the  final,  unbearable  stigma. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  attempt  the  impossible,  O 
Abuser  of  the  Salt,  O  Son  of  a  Burnt  Father?"  he 
cried.  "Do  you  want  me  to  make  noises  with  my 
ears  and  catch  the  wind  of  heaven  with  my  bare  hands, 
O  Cold  of  Countenance?" — and  he  beat  Babar  with 
the  flat  of  his  saber  till  the  blood  came. 

After  that,  the  people  of  the  village,  his  own  people, 
trembled  when  he  passed.  And  in  all  Kafiristan  there 
was  no  man  more  lonely  than  he. 

Thus  he  took  to  roaming  the  hills  up  and  down  the 
River  of  Hate,  climbing  to  the  higher  range  where, 
caught  in  crevices,  the  snow  lay  clean  and  stainless 
beneath  the  crisp  air,  down  abrupt  precipices,  and  into 
thick  forests  of  spruce  and  beach  where  the  dry  leaves 
lay  in  intricate,  wind-tossed,  fox-red  patterns  fretted 
with  delicate  green  shadows;  and  one  day,  returning 
past  the  natural  bridge  that  marked  the  line  between 
the  two  villages  and  where,  years  earlier,  his  father  had 
been  beaten  by  Yar  Zaddiq,  he  saw  a  young  girl  stand 
ing  there,  poised  lightly  upon  narrow,  sandaled  feet, 
and  looking  out  upon  the  foaming  River  of  Hate. 

She  turned  as  she  heard  his  approach  and  stared  at 
him  fearlessly,  and  he  stood  still  and  stared  back. 


JHE  RIVER  OF  HATE  85 

She  was  sixteen  years  of  age.  Her  small  slender 
body,  just  budding  into  the  promise  of  womanhood 
beneath  the  thin,  fringed,  brown  and  gray  striped  fus 
tian  robe  that  covered  her  from  her  neck  to  just  below 
her  knees,  was  perfect  in  every  line.  Her  parted, 
braided  hair  was  light  brown  and  as  smooth  as  oil,  her 
eyes  were  gray  with  intensely  black  pupils,  and  her 
nose  straight  and  short.  There  was  a  sweet  curve  to 
her  upper  lip  and  a  quick,  smiling  lift  at  the  corners. 

The  smile  rippled  into  low,  gurgling  laughter  when 
she  saw  Ebrahim  Asif  bow  deeply  before  her  with 
clasped  hands,  as  she  had  seen  the  men  of  her  village 
salaam  to  the  Ameer's  swashbuckling  emissaries. 

He  straightened  up.  With  unconsciously  graceful 
ease  he  put  his  hand  on  the  heavy,  carved  silver  hilt 
of  his  sword  and  looked  at  her  squarely. 

And  his  words,  too,  were  square  and  clear,  yet 
tinged  with  a  certain  reckless,  boisterous  good  humor, 
a  certain  swaggering  bravado. 

"Your  name,.  Crusher  of  Hearts !" 

Again  the  girl  laughed. 

"I  am  Kurjan,"  she  said.  "I  am  the  daughter  of 
Yar  Zaddiq,  Chief  of  the  Red  Village,  who,  it  is  told, 
once  gave  your  father  a  sound  beating." 

"Then — you  know  my  name?"  he  rejoined,  flushing 
darkly. 

"Evidently,  Ebrahim  Asif !"  came  her  mocking  reply. 
"The  fame  of  your  splendor  has  traveled  many  miles, 
also  the  tale  of  how  wisely  you  rule  your  own  people, 
how  you  fill  their  stomachs  with  khirli  fish — how  they 
love  you,  O  great  Afghan — " 

But,  suddenly,  she  checked  the  flow  of  words  and 
turned  to  go  when  she  saw  the  man's  insolent,  black 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  a  calm,  uncontrolled  expres- 


86  ALIEN  SOULS 

sion  of  admiration  and  desire,  and  instinctively  she 
drew  in  her  breath  and  clasped  her  right  hand  against 
her  heart,  as  unhurryingly,  he  stepped  up  to  her. 

"Kurjan,  daughter  of  Yar  Zaddiq,"  he  said  very 
gently,  "I  am  not  an  Afghan,  though  my  dress  is  that 
of  the  Kabuli  and  though  my  lips  have  forgotten  the 
proper  twist  and  click  of  my  native  tongue  in  the  many 
years  I  have  spent  away  from  home.  I  am  a  Kafiri, 
a  hillman  of  hillmen  and — "  suddenly  his  voice  peaked 
up  to  a  high,  throaty  note,  like  the  cry  of  an  eagle 
circling  above  a  frightened,  fluttering  song  bird — "I 
love  like  a  Kafiri !" 

And,  before  she  had  time  to  run  or  defend  herself, 
his  great  arms  were  about  her,  crushing  her  against 
his  massive  chest  so  that  the  long  braids  of  her  hair 
swept  the  ground  behind  her. 

Very  slowly,  as  if  reluctantly,  he  released  her. 

"Go  back  to  your  father,"  he  continued  as  she  stood 
there,  panting,  a  rush  of  unknown  sensations,  shy 
ness,  mixed  with  fear  and  a  strange,  tremulous,  pain 
ing  delight,  surging  through  her  body.  "Tell  him 
that  a  man  has  come  to  the  River  of  Hate.  Tell  him 
that  to-night  I  shall  come  to  his  house  to  demand  you 
as  my  wife.  And — as  to  you,  Crusher  of  Hearts — 
tell  yourself  when  you  lie  on  your  couch,  that  I  love 
you — that  there  is  a  sweetness  and  strength  in  my 
soul  which  is  known  to  your  soul  only!" 

And  he  walked  away,  his  saber  clanking  behind 
him ;  and  he  did  not  turn  once  to  look  back  at  her. 

Kurjan  did  not  know  if  it  was  the  strange,  sweet 
shyness  which  had  come  to  her  so  abruptly,  or  fear 
of  her  father's  terrible,  raging  temper  which  sealed  her 
lips.  At  all  events,  she  did  not  say  a  word  of  what 
had  happened  to  her  when  she  reached  home.  Courte- 


THE  RIVER  OF  HATE  87 

ously  she  bowed  to  her  father  who  was  resting  his 
huge  old  gnarled  body  on  the  earthen  platform,  and 
stepped  through  the  curtain  into  the  back  part  of  the 
house  where  the  women  crouched  over  the  crimson 
charcoal  balls  of  the  cooking  fire. 

Thus,  hours  later,  when  night  had  dropped  as  it 
does  in  the  hills,  quickly,  like  a  black-winged  bird, 
and  when  Ehrahim  Asif  had  gone  up  the  river,  crossed 
the  natural  bridge,  and  passed  through  the  silent  Red 
Village  to  the  house  of  Yar  Zaddiq,  he  found  the  latter 
unprepared  for  his  coming. 

But  his  first  words  explained  the  purpose  of  his 
visit.  "I  am  Ebrahim  Asif,  the  son  of  Sabihhudin 
Achmat,  Chief  of  the  White  Village,"  he  said  with 
nonchalant  dignity.  "I  have  decided  that  your  daugh 
ter  shall  be  the  mother  of  my  sons.  Hasten  the  wed 
ding,  old  Chief.  For  I  am  an  impatient  man  who  does 
not  brook  denial  or  contradiction,  and  my  young  blood 
is  sultry  with  passion." 

And,  calmly,  he  squatted  down  and  helped  himself 
to  the  other's  supply  of  finely  shaved  bhang,  conscious, 
by  the  rustle  of  the  curtain  that  shut  off  the  back 
part  of  the  house,  that  Kurjan  was  looking  at  him. 

She  was  standing  very  still,  her  heart  thumping 
violently.  Quickly,  imperceptibly,  the  knowledge 
floated  down  upon  her  that  she  loved  him.  Anxiously, 
she  waited  for  her  father's  reply. 

When  Yar  Zaddiq  looked  up  his  words  dropped 
smooth  and  even,  as  stones  drop  down  a  glacier. 

"So  you  are  Ebrahim  Asif — "  his  lips  curled  in  a 
crooked  smile,  exposing  the  toothless  gums  stained 
with  opium  and  tobacco — "the  son  of  him  whom  once 
I  beat  grievously  with  sticks — as  a  dog  is  beaten  with 
thorn  sticks — ?" 


88  ALIEN  SOULS 

"You — and  your  tribesmen !   A  dozen  against  one !" 

"I  could  have  killed  him  with  my  bare  hands.  I, 
alone !  I  was  stronger  than  he !" 

"But  to-day  you  are  old — and  I  am  young.  Your 
body  is  withered,  while  my  body  is  bossed  with  muscles 
as  the  night  sky  is  with  stars,"  Ebrahim  Asif  said  in 
a  gentle  voice,  while  his  fingers  toyed  with  the  crimson 
cord  of  his  sword,  an  action  the  significance  of  which 
was  not  lost  on  the  older  man. 

And  so  he  smiled. 

"It  is  thus,"  he  asked,  "your  wish  to  marry  my 
daughter?" 

"Yes." 

"But — there  is  the  ancient  enmity  between  Red 
Village  and  White—" 

"Over  a  potful  of  stinking  khirli  fish.  I  know." 
Ebrahim  Asif  waved  a  great,  hairy  hand.  "But  there 
will  be  no  more  babbling  and  jabbering  and  foolish 
quarreling  after  I  have  married  your  daughter.  I  am 
my  late  father's  only  son,  and  she — "  negligently,  with 
his  thumb  on  which  shone  a  star  sapphire  set  in  crude 
silver,  he  pointed  at  the  curtain  where  she  stood — "she 
is  your  only  child.  Let  peace  be  the  dowry  of  our 
wedding,  peace  between  your  village  and  mine,  a  for 
getting  of  ancient  hatreds,  a  splitting  of  future  profits. 
Let  us  put  aside  the  old  enmities  as  a  clean  man  puts 
aside  soiled  linen.  In  the  future  we  shall  divide  the 
khirli  catch  evenly  between  your  people  and  mine." 

Yar  Zaddiq  laughed  in  his  throat. 

"Ahee!"  he  cried.  "It  is  I  who  gives  all  the  dowry. 
And  what  will  you  give,  young  Chief?" 

"I?"  Ebrahim  Asif  raised  an  eyebrow.  "Where 
hate  has  died,  no  room  is  needed  to  wield  a  sword. 
Where  strength  goes  to  the  making  of  pea:e,  no  vio- 


THE  RIVER  OF  HATE  89 

lence  is  needed  to  strike  a  dagger  blow.  Where  quar 
rel  is  buried,  no  fertilizer  is  needed  with  which  to 
grow  friendship.  But — I  am  an  honest  man !  I  shall 
make  the  bargain  even,  so  that  nobody  may  complain 
and  that  none  of  your  people  may  say  that  you  are 
unwise.  Your  daughter  shall  be  mine !  Half  the  khirli 
catch  shall  be  my  people's.  And  I,  on  my  part,  shall 
lend  to  your  people  the  help  of  wisdom  which  I  learned 
amongst  the  Afghans.  And  after  your  death — which 
Allah  grant  be  not  for  many  years — I  shall  rule  both 
villages." 

He  rose  and  bowed  with  grave  courtesy. 

"I  am  an  impatient  man,"  he  went  on.  "My  heart 
plays  with  my  passion.  Let  the  wedding  be  the  next 
time  I  set  foot  in  the  Red  Village.  Come.  Give  oath." 

He  stood  still  and  looked  at  Yar  Zaddiq  who,  too, 
had  risen.  For  several  seconds,  the  older  man  did 
not  speak.  His  stubborn  resolve  that  never,  as  long 
as  he  was  alive,  should  Ebrahim  Asif  marry  his  daugh 
ter,  that  never,  until  the  end  of  time,  should  his  people 
cede  to  the  White  Village  one  tenth,  not  one  hundredth 
part  of  the  fishing  rights  which  were  theirs  according 
to  the  ancient  law,  stood  firm ;  but  his  opponent's  equal 
resolve  hacked  at  his  faith  like  a  dagger. 

"Give  oath!"  repeated  the  other,  touching  the  hilt 
of  his  sword,  and  then  Yar  Zaddiq  spoke. 

"You  shall  wed  my  daughter  the  next  time  you  set 
foot  in  the  Red  Village,"  he  said  solemnly.  "I  swear 
it  upon  the  Koran !" 

But  Ebrahim  grinned  boyishly. 

"And  yet  I  have  heard,"  he  said  very  gently,  "that 
you  men  of  the  older  generation,  converted  to  Islam  at 
the  point  of  the  sword,  are  not  the  stout  Moslems  you 
claim  to  be.  Thus — swear  by  the  gods  of  our  people, 


90  ALIEN  SOULS 

our  own  people!  Swear  by  the  ancient  gods  of  the 
Kafiri!" 

And  again  he  toyed  with  his  sword,  and  again  the 
old  chief,  a  great  bitterness  bubbling  in  his  words — 
for  the  Moslem  oath  meant  nothing  to  him — swore  that 
the  next  time  Ebrahim  set  foot  in  the  Red  Village, 
he  should  wed  Kurjan.  By  Ogun,  god  of  sunshine, 
he  gave  oath,  and  by  the  three  thunder  gods ;  by  Wog- 
gun,  the  god  of  the  mid-week,  and  by  Khanli,  the  grim 
god  on  whose  forehead  is  an  ivory  horn  from  which 
hangs  the  fates  of  men ;  and  finally  by  Gagabudh,  the 
jeweled  god  of  the  mountain  glens  who,  alone  of  all 
the  gods,  is  immortal  and  whom  even  Time  cannot  slay. 

And  Ebrahim  Asif,  well  satisfied,  went  out  into  the 
night,  courteously  avoiding  speech  with  Kurjan  though, 
during  the  last  words,  she  had  stepped  fully  into  the 
room. 

She  looked  after  him.  "I  shall  follow  him,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "I  love  him.  He  is  brave  and 
arrogant  and  cruel.  There  is  passion  in  his  heart  and 
strength  in  his  arms.  I  love  him.  He  is  brave." 

Quite  suddenly,  Yar  Zaddiq  laughed. 

"Yes,  little  daughter,"  he  said.  "He  is  brave.  But — " 
he  burst  into  high-pitched,  senile  cackle,  "it  is  not  wis 
dom  he  has  learned  amongst  the  Afghans!  Not  wis 
dom!" 

"Except  the  wisdom  of  love!"  murmured  Kurjan 
as  she  left  the  house  and  looked  into  the  dark.  "The 
wisdom  of  love — which  is  simplicity — and  arrogance — 
and  strength!" 

Love  had  come  to  her.  She  knew  the  lore  of  the 
Red  Village  and  of  the  White,  the  old  feud,  the  bitter, 
sullen  enmity;  but,  somehow,  Ebrahim  Asif  was  neither 
of  the  Red  Village  nor  of  the  White.  He  seemed  to 


RIVER  OF  HATE  91 

her  the  very  spirit  of  the  land,  serenely  brutal,  reso 
lutely  pagan  to  the  core  of  him,  but  a  man ! 

"A  man  of  men!"  she  said  to  him  one  whirling, 
golden  afternoon  when  she  met  him  amongst  the 
frayed  basalt  ridges  of  the  farther  hills  and  lay  pant 
ing  in  his  crushing  embrace.  "A  man  of  men — with 
the  bowels  of  compassion  of  a  striped  tiger!" 

"You  have  spoken  true  words,  Dispenser  of  De 
lights,"  Ebrahim  Asif  agreed  naively.  "I  am  indeed 
a  man  such  as  with  whom  any  other  chief  would  be 
proud  to  have  a  quarrel." 

"And  such  as  any  other  woman  might — •"  she 
slurred  and  stopped;  and  he  held  her  close. 

"That,  too,  is  the  truth,  little  musk  rose,"  he  said 
calmly.  "Often  have  I  dragged  my  crackling  sword 
through  the  bazaars  of  Kabul,  and  black  eyes  of  Af 
ghan  women  and  maids  stared  at  me  through  close- 
meshed  veils — and,  perhaps,  there  may  have  been 
hooded  eyelids  raised  quickly  in  sign  of  promise — and 
hope — and — ahee! — reward.  But — "  and  with  a  great 
gesture  he  dismissed  the  past  as  if  it  had  never  ex 
isted — "they  passed  into  the  dark,  like  gray  djinns  of 
evil.  They  left  no  trace,  no  heartache.  There  is  only 
you  in  all  the  world,  heart  of  my  heart,  and  my  soul 
is  a  carpet  for  your  little  feet.  Step  on  it.  Step  on 
it  with  all  your  strength!  For  I  am  strong,  strong!" 

"My  father,  too,  is  strong.  And  he  hates  you.  He 
speaks  of  you  to  me — though  I  do  not  reply.  He 
curses  you — " 

"Allah!"  Ebrahim  Asif  laughed  and  snapped  his 
fingers.  "Your  father  is  a  barren  mule,  bragging 
about  the  horse,  his  father.  He  is  a  toothless  she- 
wolf — and  presently  I  shall  set  foot  on  the  soil  of  the 
Red  Village  and  claim  you." 


92  ALIEN  SOULS 

"When,  heart  o'  me?"  she  whispered. 

And  the  answer  came  low  and  triumphant.  "To 
morrow,  Crusher  of  Hearts !" 

And,  the  next  day,  in  the  White  Village,  the  conches 
brayed  and  the  gongs  were  beaten;  the  young  men 
danced  over  crossed  daggers,  and  the  unmarried  girls 
drowned  their  heads  with  the  dowers  of  the  hillside 
and  the  forest. 

For  that  morning,  Ebrahim  Asif  had  called  the 
villagers  to  full  durbar  and  had  given  them  the  good 
news.  There  had  been  uncouth  rejoicing. 

Only  Jarullah  had  struck  a  discordant  note. 

"Beware,  young  Chief,"  he  had  said,  following 
Ebrahim  from  the  council  hut.  "Yar  Zaddiq  has  a 
forked  tongue.  His  father  was  a  hyena,  and  his  mother 
a  she-devil,"  so  he  warned. 

"Possibly,"  the  other  had  laughed.  "But,  whatever 
his  ancestry,  his  curse  has  not  descended  to  his  daugh 
ter.  She  is  a  precious  casket  filled  with  the  arts  of 
coquetry.  Too,  she  is  strong  and  well  turned  of  hip 
and  breast.  She  will  bear  me  stout  men-children." 

And  now  he  was  in  his  house,  adorning  himself  as 
becomes  a  bridegroom;  for  he  had  decided  that  he 
would  wed  Kurjan  that  very  night. 

He  curled  and  oiled  his  beard ;  he  drew  broad  lines 
of  antimony  down  his  eyelids ;  he  heightened  the  color 
of  his  lips  by  chewing  betel ;  he  stained  his  finger  tips 
crimson  with  henna;  he  wound  an  enormous  green 
muslin  turban  around  his  fur  cap;  he  arranged  well 
the  folds  of  his  waistband ;  he  perfumed  his  body  from 
head  to  toes  with  pungent  oil  of  geranium,  a  small 
bottle  of  which  had  cost  him  a  year's  pay  to  Kabul. 

Then  he  threw  a  peach-colored  silk  khalat,  em 
broidered  with  cunning  Persian  designs  in  gold  thread, 


JHE  RIVER  OF  HATE  93 

over  his  broad  supple  shoulders,  picked  up  his  sword, 
and  stepped  out  on  the  threshold  where  Jarullah  was 
squatting. 

"Jarullah,"  he  said,  "to-morrow  morning  I  bring 
home  the  bride.  See  that  a  feast  is  being  prepared.  I 
myself  shall  bring  some  fat  khirli  fish,  the  pick  of  the 
catch.  As  to  you,  have  the  women  roast  a  sheep,  well 
stuffed  and  seasoned  with  condiments.  In  there, 
amongst  the  boxes  I  brought  from  Kabul,  you  will 
find  many  things,  spices  of  India  and  the  far  countries, 
strange  sauces,  and  exquisite  Chinese  confections  com 
pounded  of  rose  leaves  and  honey.  Let  the  feast  be 
worthy  of  the  bride — and  do  not  steal  too  much." 

Jarullah  overlooked  the  laughing  insult  of  the  young 
chief's  last  words.  He  clutched  the  hem  of  Ebrahim's 
khalat.  He  was  terribly  in  earnest. 

"Take  care,  young  master,"  he  whined,  "lest  evil 
befall  you.  You  are  brave,  and  trusting.  But  neither 
with  bravery  nor  with  trust  can  you  knit  the  riven, 
lying  tongue  of  such  a  one  as  Yar  Zaddiq.  Take  along 
a  dozen  stout  fighting  men.  Do  not  go  alone." 

Ebrahim  smiled  as  he  might  at  a  babbling  child. 

"What  avail  is  a  rotten  plow  to  a  sound  ox?"  he 
asked  casually.  "What  shall  talkers  do  when  there 
are  no  listeners?  What  is  the  good  of  lies  when  truth 
is  the  greatest  lie?" 

With  which  thoroughly  mystifying  words,  he  walked 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  natural  bridge  that  linked 
the  two  villages.  Evening  was  dropping. 

Steadily  Ebrahim  Asif  kept  on  his  way,  along  the 
northern  bank  of  the  river,  well  within  sight  of  the 
southern,  so  that  his  peach-colored  khalat  flashed  like 
a  flame  in  the  rays  of  the  dying  sun;  and  he  laughed 
softly  to  himself  at  the  thought  that,  doubtless,  sharp 


94  ALIEN  SOULS 

eyes  in  the  Red  Village  were  watching  his  progress 
from  bowlders  and  trees. 

Half  a  mile  below  the  natural  bridge,  he  disappeared 
behind  the  shoulder  of  a  basalt  ledge  that  jutted  out 
from  the  river  and  entered  a  thick  clump  of  dwarf 
acacia. 

Five  minutes  later,  the  watchers  of  the  Red  Village 
saw  once  more  the  braggard  sheen  of  peach-colored 
silk — and  Yar  Zaddiq  whispered  a  last  word  to  the 
Kafiri  who  crowded  at  his  heels  as  jungle  wolves  to 
the  tiger's  kill. 

Another  ten  minutes.  The  sun  was  hissing  out  in 
a  sea  of  blood.  The  heavens  were  melting  into  a  quiet 
night  of  glowing  dark-violet  with  a  pale  moon  peaking 
its  lonely  horn  in  the  North,  and  up  at  the  natural 
bridge  where  the  two  villages  met,  there  was  the  sudden 
yelling  of  war  cries,  the  rattle  of  stones,  the  throwing 
of  thorn  sticks, — and,  above  the  noise,  Yar  Zaddiq's 
voice  stabbed  out  as,  flanked  by  the  pick  of  his  fight 
ing  men,  he  hurled  himself  upon  the  peach-colored 
khalat  before  its  wearer  had  had  time  to  cross  the 
bridge. 

"When  you  set  foot  in  the  Red  Village,  Ebrahim 
Asif !  I  swore  it!  By  the  Koran  did  I  give  oath,  and 
by  the  ancient  gods  of  the  Kafiri !  When  you  set  foot 
in  the  Red  Village !  True  I  am  to  the  double  oath !" — 
and  his  stick  came  down,  tearing  a  great  gash  in  the 
bridegroom's  silken  finery,  brought  from  far  Kabul. 

The  men  of  the  Red  Village  closed  in,  with  exultant, 
savage  shouts. 

Night  had  dropped,  suddenly,  completely,  as  it  does 
in  the  tropics,  with  a  burnous  of  black  velvet. 

Nothing  was  visible  except  the  shadowy,  fantastic 
outline  of  a  dozen  human  bodies  balled  together  into 


THE  RIVER  OF  HATE  95 

a  tight  knot,  heaving,  straining,  wrestling,  pulling  down 
their  lonely  opponent  as  hounds  pull  down  a  stag. 

But  the  lonely  man  fought  well.  Time  and  again 
he  jerked  himself  loose.  Time  and  again  his  sword 
flashed  free  and  tasted  blood. 

Time  and  again  he  drove  his  assailants  before  him 
towards  the  boundary  of  the  Red  Village. 

But  always,  rallied  by  Yar  Zaddiq's  warring  shouts, 
they  hurled  themselves  back  at  him  before  he  had  a 
chance  to  cross  the  line. 

And  then  came  the  end. 

A  jagged  rock  crashed  on  his  head  and  he  fell  down, 
unconscious,  bleeding  from  a  dozen  flesh  wounds, 
curled  up  like  a  sleeping  dog,  his  right  hand  across  his 
forehead  as  if  to  ward  off  the  blows  of  Fate. 

Yar  Zaddiq  bent  over  him. 

"You  are  a  brave  man,  Ebrahim  Asif,"  he  said  quite 
gently,  "and  doubtless  you  were  a  swashbuckler  and  a 
brawler  in  the  tumult  of  the  packed  Kabul  bazaars! 
Doubtless  the  gods  have  dowered  your  heart  with 
stanch  courage  and  your  body  with  the  strength  of 
bunched  muscles!  But  there  is  no  wisdom  in  your 
soul,  young  Chief.  Ahee!  Your  caution  is  as  uncer 
tain  as  a  Tartar's  beard,  as  rare  as  wings  upon  a  cat !" 

He  laughed. 

But,  with  utter,  dramatic  suddenness,  just  as  the 
moon  stabbed  down  with  a  sharp  wedge  of  silvery  light 
that  brought  the  features  of  the  unconscious  man  into 
crass  relief,  his  laugh  changed  to  a  howl  of  disappoint 
ment  and  rage,  cracked,  high-pitched  and  ludicrous. 

He  kicked  the  prostrate  form  with  all  his  might, 
turned,  and  rushed  back  across  the  bridge  as  fast  as 
his  gnarled  old  legs  would  let  him,  while  his  clansmen, 
wondering,  astonished,  cluttered  after  him. 


96  ALIEN  SOULS 

Stumbling,  falling,  cursing,  he  ran  through  the  night. 
His  withered  lungs  beat  like  a  hammer.  But  he  kept 
on,  along  the  southern  bank,  towards  his  house  that 
sprang  out  at  him  with  warm,  golden  lights. 

With  his  last  ounce  of  strength  he  hurtled  across 
the  threshold — and  there,  by  the  side  of  Kurjan,  one 
arm  around  her  waist,  the  other  gesturing  some  flowery 
words  of  love  he  was  whispering  in  her  ear,  sat  Ebra- 
him  Asif,  in  the  ragged  clothes  of  Babar,  drenched  to 
the  skin,  but  happy,  serene,  supremely  sure  of  himself. 

Languidly  he  looked  up  and  greeted  the  old  man  who 
was  speechless  with  rage  and  fatigue. 

"Have  the  women  prepare  me  a  meal,"  he  said,  "a 
khirli  fish,  carefully  boned,  and  spiced  with  tumeric, 
also  a  goblet  of  tea,  steaming  hot.  For  it  was  cold 
swimming  the  River  of  Hate  above  the  whirlpool  of 
the  Black  Rock,  and  it  is  not  right  that  the  bridegroom 
should  sit  shivering  at  the  wedding." 

Then,  casually,  he  asked : 

"Did  you  by  any  chance  kill  that  youth  of  my  village 
— ah — Babar — who  changed  clothes  with  me  in  the 
acacia  clump  below  the  bridge  ?" 

"No — no — "  stammered  Yar  Zaddiq;  and  Ebrahim 
Asif  sighed  contentedly. 

"Good,  by  Allah  and  by  Allah!"  he  said.  "There 
are  the  makings  of  a  man  in  that  youth — once  I  shall 
have  taught  him  the  shining  wisdom  I  learned  at 
Kabul—" 

And,  dreamily,  with  Kurjan's  head  on  his  shoulder, 
he  looked  through  the  open  door  where  the  night  was 
draping  the  River  of  Hate  in  her  trailing  cloak  of 
purple  and  black. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK 

THAT  night,  with  no  hatred  in  his  heart  but  with  a 
Moslem's  implacable  logic  guiding  his  hand,  he  killed 
the  Prussian  drill  sergeant  who,  scarlet  tarbush  on 
yellow-curled,  flat-backed  skull,  was  breveted  as  major 
to  his  regiment,  the  Seventeenth  Turkish  Infantry. 

His  comrades  saw  him  creep  into  the  tattered,  bell- 
shaped  tent  where  the  Prussian  was  sleeping  the  sleep 
of  utter  exhaustion.  They  heard  the  tragic  crack 
of  the  shot,  and  saw  him  come  out  again  smoking 
revolver  in  his  right  hand.  Calmly  squatting  on  their 
haunches,  they  watched  him  go  to  the  commissary, 
help  himself  to  slabs  of  spongy,  gray  bread,  dried 
apricot  paste,  and  a  bundle  of  yellow  Latakia  tobacco 
leaves,  fill  his  water  canteen,  and  take  the  road  toward 
the  giant  breast  of  the  Anatolian  mountains,  studded 
here  and  there  with  small,  bistre-red  farms,  like 
brooches  clasping  a  greenish-black  garment. 

"Allah's  Peace  on  you,  brother  Moslems!"  he  said 
piously,  turning,  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand  opening 
like  the  sticks  of  a  fan,  then  closing  them  again,  to 
show  the  inevitability  of  what  he  had  done. 

"And  on  you  Peace,  Mehmet  el-Touati !"  came  their 
mumbled  reply,  tainted  by  just  a  shade  of  envy,  be 
cause  they  told  themselves  that  soon  Mehmet  el-Touati 
would  be  in  his  own  country  while  their  homes  were 
far  in  the  South  and  West,  and  they  did  not  know  the 
roads. 

97 


98  ALIEN  SOULS 

They  were  neither  astonished,  nor  shocked.  They 
understood  him,  as  he  understood  them. 

For,  like  himself,  they  were  simple  Turkish  peas 
ants,  bearded,  middle-aged,  patient,  slightly  rheumy, 
who  had  been  drafted  into  the  army  and  thrown  into 
the  frothy,  blood-stained  cauldroji  of  European  his 
tory  in  the  making,  by  the  time  honored  process  of  a 
green-turbaned  priest  rising  one  Friday  morning  in 
the  mosque  pulpit  and  declaring  with  melodious  unc 
tion  that  the  Russian  was  clamoring  at  the  outer 
door  of  the  Osmanli  house,  and  that  Islam  was  in 
danger. 

The  Russian — by  Allah- and  by  Allah,  but  they  knew 
him  of  old ! 

He  would  ride  over  their  fields,  over  the  sown  and 
the  fallow.  He  would  cut  down  the  peach  trees.  He 
would  pollute  their  mosques,  their  harems,  and  their 
wells.  He  would  stable  his  horses  in  their  cypress- 
shaded  graveyards.  He  would  enslave  the  women, 
kill  the  little  children,  and  send  the  red  flame  licking 
over  byre  and  barn  thatch. 

Therefore : 

Jehad!— Ko\y  War!  Kill  for  the  Faith  and  the 
blessed  Messenger  Mohammed! 

Thus,  uncomplaining,  ox-eyed,  they  had  pressed! 
their  wives  and  their  children  to  hairy,  massive  chests, 
had  adjusted  the  rawhide  straps  of  their  sandals,  had 
trooped  to  district  military  headquarters,  had  been 
fitted  into  nondescript,  chafing,  buckram-stiffened  uni 
forms,  had  been  given  excellent  German  rifles, 
wretched  food,  brackish  water;  and  had  trudged  along 
the  tilting  roads  of  stony,  bleak  Anatolia. 

Moslems,  peasants,  pawns — they  had  gone  forth, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK  99 

leaving  their  all  behind,  stabbed  on  the  horns  of  Fate ; 
with  no  Red  Cross,  no  doctors,  no  ambulances,  to  look 
after  their  wounded  or  to  ease  the  last  agonies  of  their 
dying;  with  sleek,  furtive-eyed  Levantine  government 
clerks  stealing  the  pittance  which  the  war  office  allowed 
for  the  sustenance  of  the  women  and  children  and 
feeble  old  men  who  tilled  the  fields  and  garnered 
meagre  crops  with  their  puny  arms  while  the  strong, 
the  lusty,  the  bearded,  were  away  battling  for  the 
Faith;  with  none  to  praise  their  patriotism  or  sing 
epic  paeans  to  the  glory  of  their  matter-of-fact  courage ; 
with  neither  flags  waving  nor  brasses  blaring;  with 
no  printed  or  spoken  public  opinion  to  tell  them  that 
they  were  doing  right,  that  they  were  heroes;  with 
nobody  back  home  to  send  them  encouragement  or  com 
forts  or  pitiful  little  luxuries. 

They  had  gone  forth,  unimaginative,  unenthusiastic, 
to  kill — as  a  matter  of  duty,  a  sending  of  Kismet. 

For  Islam  was  in  danger.  The  Russian  was  clamor 
ing  at  the  outer  gate,  beyond  Erzeroum. 

Turks,  they.  Cannon  fodder.  Bloody  dung  to 
mulch  the  fields  of  ambition. 

Had  come  long  months  of  fighting  and  marching 
and  fighting  again.  Victories,  soberly  accepted.  More 
marching,  through  a  hot,  sad  land  speckled  with  purple 
shadows. 

And  they  had  wondered  a  little,  and  one  day  Mehmet 
el-Touati,  as  spokesman  of  his  company,  had  asked  a 
question  of  his  colonel,  Moustaffa  Sheffket  Bey,  who, 
in  time  of  peace,  was  the  civilian  Pasha  of  his  native 
district. 

The  colonel  had  smiled  through  white,  even  teeth. 

"Yes,  Mehmet  el-Touati,"  he  had  replied.  "We  are 
going  South." 


TOO  ALIEN  SOULS 

"But  Russia  is  in  the  'North,  Effendina,  beyond  the 
snow  range." 

"I  know.    But — have  you  ever  hunted?" 

"Often,  Effendina." 

"Good.  You  stalk  deer  against  the  wind,  don't 
you,  so  that  it  may  not  scent  you  and  bolt  ?" 

"Yes,  Effendina." 

"It  is  the  same  with  warfare,  with  hunting  men. 
We  are  traveling  South — for  a  while.  We  do  not 
want  the  Russian  to  smell  the  Turkish  scent." 

"But — "  Mehmet  el-Touati  had  pointed  at  a  corpse 
that  lay  curled  up  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  like  a  dog 
asleep  in  the  sun.  "These  people  are  not — " 

"No.  They  are  not  Russians.  They  are  the  Arme 
nian  jackals  who  accompany  the  Russian  lion  in  search 
of  carrion.  They  are  the  Russian's  allies.  They,  too, 
are  the  enemies  of  the  Faith.  Kill  them.  Kill  the 
jackals  first.  Presently,  with  the  help  of  Allah,  the 
All-Merciful,  we  shall  nail  the  lion's  pelt  to  the  door  of 
our  house." 

"AlhamduUllah!" 

He,  and  the  others,  had  accepted  the  explanation. 
They  had  marched — South.  They  had  fallen  on  the 
Armenian  villages  with  torch  and  rope  and  scimitar. 
They  had  killed. 

It  was  an  order. 

Many  of  his  regiment  died.  Others  took  their 
places,  Turkish  peasants  like  himself,  middle  aged, 
bearded,  solemn — but  from  districts  farther  South  and 
West. 

They,  too,  had  heard  that  Islam  was  in  danger, 
that  the  Russian  was  at  the  door. 

Came  more  fighting,  through  many,  weary  months. 
Then  a  defeat,  a  rout,  a  debacle;  the  ground  littered 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK  101 

with  their  dead  and  dying,  amongst  them  the  colonel 
of  the  Seventeenth,  Moustaffa  Sheffket  Bey;  and  talk 
of  treason  in  exalted  places,  of  a  renegade  Saloniki 
Jew  by  the  name  of  Enver  Bey  throttling  the  ancient 
Osmanli  Empire  and  handing  it  over,  tied  hand  and 
foot,  to  a  Potsdam  usurper. 

Greeks  and  Syrians  and  Druses  had  spread  the 
hushed,  bitter  tale  through  the  ranks  of  the  retreating 
army.  But  the  grave  Turkish  peasant  soldiers  had 
slowly  shaken  their  heads. 

Leaky-tongued  babble,  that! 

They  had  never  heard  of  either  Enver  Bey  or  the 
Potsdam  usurper.  Their  very  names  were  unknown 
to  them.  They  were  fighting  because  Islam  was  in 
danger. 

Had  not  the  green-turbaned  priests  told  them  so? 

They  had  been  defeated.  What  of  it?  That,  too, 
was  Fate — Fate,  which  comes  out  of  the  dark,  like  a 
blind  camel,  with  no  warning,  no  jingling  of  bells. 

At  first  they  had  won,  and  presently  they  would  win 
again.  They  would  conquer  as  of  old.  It  was  so 
written. 

They  would  return  to  their  quiet,  sleepy  villages  and 
once  more  till  the  fields.  Once  more  they  would 
harrow  on  the  strips  of  fallow,  shouting  to  their 
clumsy,  humped  oxen.  Once  more  they  would  hear 
the  creaking  song  of  the  water  wheels,  the  chant  of 
the  mullahs  calling  the  Faithful  to  prayer,  and  the 
drowsy  zumming  of  the  honey  bees.  Once  more,  on 
Friday,  the  day  of  rest  of  all  God's  creatures,  they 
would  stroll  out  with  their  women  and  children  into 
the  sloping  hills  and  smoke  their  pipes  and  eat  their 
food  and  sip  their  coffee  and  licorice  water  beneath 
the  twinkling  of  the  golden  crab  apples  that  clustered 


102  ALIEN  SOULS 

high  up  in  the  hedges  and  the  greenish  elderberries  on 
their  thick,  purple-blue  stalks. 

Meanwhile  more  fighting,  marching,  suffering. 

Torch  and  rope  and  scimitar  had  done  the  work. 
The  Armenians  had  died  by  the  thousands. 

The  land  was  a  reeking  shambles. 

And — what  of  the  Russian? 

With  the  Armenians  strung  up  in  front  of  their 
own  houses,  or  buried  in  shallow  graves,  there  was 
only  the  Russian  left  to  fight. 

And  he  did  fight,  with  long-range  guns  and  massed 
machine-gun  fire  and  airplanes  and  blazing  white  shells 
that  screamed  death  from  afar. 

Daily  he  took  toll,  gave  toll. 

"But,"  said  Mehmet  el-Touati,  voicing  the  slug 
gish,  gray  doubts  of  the  Seventeenth  Infantry  which, 
in  its  turn,  voiced  the  doubts  of  the  army — "why  is 
the  Russian  here,  in  the  South?  How  did  he  come 
down  from  behind  the  snow  ramparts  of  the  Caucasus 
and  is  facing  us  here,  in  the  flat  lands,  the  yellow 
lands,  the  fertile  lands?  Also,  I  fought  the  Russian, 
twenty,  thirty  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  youth,  with 
no  gray  in  my  hair  and  never  a  crack  in  my  heart. 
Then  the  Russian  was  heavy  and  bearded  and  dressed 
in  green.  Now  he  is  tall  and  lithe  and  slim  and  ruddy 
of  skin  and — "  he  pointed  at  an  English  prisoner — 
"dressed  in  khaki  brown.  I  cannot  understand  it.  Is 
there  then  truth  in  the  bazaar  babble  that  treason  has 
crept  into  the  Osmanli  house  on  silent,  tmclean  feet  ?" 

Thus  he  spoke  to  the  new  colonel  of  the  Seventeenth, 
Yakub  Lahada  Bey. 

The  latter  was  a  monocled,  mustached  dandy  from 
Stamboul,  who  had  learned  how  to  ogle  and  speak 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK  103 

German  and  misquote  Nietzsche  and  drink  beer  in  the 
Berlin  academy  of  war.  Too,  he  had  learned,  nor 
badly,  certain  rudiments  of  strategy  and  tactics.  But 
he  had  paid  a  bitter  price  for  his  lessons.  For  he  had 
forgotten  the  simple,  naive  decencies  of  his  native 
land,  the  one  eternal  wisdom  of  the  Koran  which 
says  that  all  Moslems  are  brothers,  equal. 

He  dropped  his  eyeglass,  twirled  his  mustache, 
and  turned  on  Mehmet  et-Touati  with  a  snarl. 

"Shut  up,  son  of  a  dog  with  a  dog's  heart,"  he 
cried.  "Get  back— or— " 

He  lifted  his  riding  crop  significantly,  and  Mehmet 
el-Touati  salaamed  and  walked  away.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  A  beating  from  a  master  and  a  step  in 
the  mud,  he  said  to  himself,  were  not  things  one  should 
consider  in  times  of  stress.  Nor  did  he  mind  the  kill 
ing,  the  dying,  the  wounds,  the  bleeding  toes,  the 
wretched  food. 

But  what  of  Islam?  What  of  the  Russian?  What 
of — treason  ? 

Still,  the  priests  had  told  them  that  Islam  was  in 
danger,  that  they  must  fight.  And  they  did.  Though 
not  as  well  as  before. 

For  doubt  had  entered  their  hearts. 

Came  another  defeat;  another  retreat;  another  dis 
grace  hushed  up,  followed  by  hectic  clamorings  from 
Stamboul,  the  seat  of  the  Caliph,  the  Commander  of 
the  Faithful,  and  thunderous,  choleric,  dragooning  or 
ders  zumming  South  from  Berlin  along  the  telegraph 
wires. 

Then,  one  day,  a  red-faced,  blue-eyed,  white-mus- 
tached,  spectacled  giant,  eagle-topped  silver  helmet  on 
bullet  head,  stout  chest  ablaze  with  medals  and  ribbons, 
rode  into  headquarters  camp  and  addressed  the  sol- 


104  ALIEN  SOULS 

diers,  who  were  lined  up  for  parade  review,  in  halting 
Turkish  with  a  strange,  guttural  accent. 

Mehmet  el-Touati  did  not  understand  the  whole  of 
the  harangue.  But  he  caught  a  word  here  and  there : 
about  Islam  being  in  danger,  and  the  Russian  at  the 
door;  too,  something  about  a  great  Emperor  in  the 
North,  Wilhelm  by  name,  who,  like  themselves,  was  a 
good  Moslem  and  coming  to  their  rescue. 

Thus  Mehmet  el-Touati  cheered  until  he  was  hoarse. 
So  did  the  others.  And  hereafter  foreigners — Prus 
sians,  they  called  themselves — took  the  places  of  the 
Osmanlis  as  officers  and  drill  sergeants  in  many  of 
the  regiments,  including  the  Seventeenth.  They  said 
that  they  were  Moslems — which  was  odd,  considering 
that  their  habits  and  customs  were  different  from 
those  of  the  Turks.  But — said  the  priests — they  be 
longed  to  a  different  sect,  and  what  did  that  matter  in 
the  eyes  of  Allah,  the  All-Knowing? 

On  and  away,  then ! 

Kill,  kill  for  the  Faith! 

For  days  at  a  time  they  were  loaded  on  flat,  stink 
ing  cattle  cars  pulled  by  wheezy,  rickety,  sooty  en 
gines,  until  they  lost  all  ideas  as  to  direction  and  time 
and  distance.  East  they  were  shipped — and  fought, 
losing  half  their  effectives,  quickly  replaced  by  raw 
village  levies,  until  the  Seventeenth  was  like  a  kaleido 
scope  of  all  the  many  provinces  of  the  Turkish 
Empire,  with  Mehmet  el-Touati  the  last  surviving 
soldier  of  the  Anatolian  mountain  district  in  his  com 
pany. 

Again  they  were  loaded  on  flat  cars,  then  unloaded, 
rushed  into  battle,  bled  white.  Back  on  the  cars  once 
more — South,  East,  North,  West! 

The  Russian — Mehmet  el-Touati  wondered — was  he 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK  105 

then  all  around  themf?  Was  he  attacking  the  house  of 
the  Osmanli  from  all  sides  ? 

Hard,  hard  Fate !  But— fight  for  the  Faith !  Islam 
was  in  danger — and  on,  on,  along  the  never-ending 
road  of  suffering  and  death ! 

Followed  days  of  comparative  quiet  while  the  en 
gines  rushed  their  armed  freight  to  the  North;  and 
Mehmet  el-Touati,  who  had  not  complained  when  the 
food  was  wormy  and  the  water  thick  with  greenish 
slime,  who  had  not  complained  when  bits  of  shrapnel 
had  lacerated  his  left  arm  and  when  a  brutal  German 
student-doctor  had  treated  the  wound,  with  no  anes 
thetics,  no  drugs,  with  just  his  dirty  fingers  and  dirtier 
scalpel — Mehmet  el-Touati  complained  to  the  Prussian 
officer  in  charge  of  his  company  while  they  were  camp 
ing  on  both  sides  of  the  railroad  track. 

"Bimbashi!"  he  said,  salaaming  with  outstretched 
hands.  "We  are  clean  men,  being  Moslems.  There  is 
no  water  with  which  to  make  our  proper  ablutions  be 
fore  prayer." 

"Schnauze  halt  en,  verdammter  Schweinehund !" 
came  the  reply,  accompanied  by  the  supreme  Teutonic 
argument :  kicks  and  cuffs ;  and  a  detailed  account  in 
halting,  guttural  Turkish  of  what  he,  himself,  brevet- 
major  Gottlieb  Kriiger,  thought  of  the  Moslem  reli 
gion,  including  its  ablutions  and  prayers. 

"Go  and  make  your  ablutions  in — " 

Then  a  frightful,  brutal  obscenity,  and  the  soldiers 
who  had  accompanied  Mehmet  el-Touati  drew  back  a 
little.  They  questioned  each  other  with  their  eyes. 
They  were  like  savage  beasts  of  prey,  about  to  leap. 

'  Bashi  byouk,  begh;  ayaghi  byouk,  tchobar — " 
purred  one  of  them,  in  soft,  feline,  minatory  Turkish. 

A  knife  flashed  free. 


106  ALIEN  SOULS 

The  Prussian  paled  beneath  his  tan.     .     .     . 

A  tight,  tense  moment  of  danger.  A  little  moment, 
the  result  of  a  deed — brutal,  though  insignificant,  ex 
cept  in  the  final  analysis  of  national  psychology — that 
might  have  spread  into  gigantic,  fuliginous  conflagra 
tion,  that  might  have  sent  the  whole  German-Turk 
ish  card  house  into  a  pitful,  smoldering  heap  of 
ruins ! 

But  a  Turkish  staff  officer,  fat,  pompous,  good  nat- 
ured,  his  eyes  red  and  swollen  with  too  much  hasheesh 
smoking,  played  the  part  of  the  deus  ex  machina.  He 
stepped  quickly  between  the  Prussian  and  the  Turks 
and  talked  to  them  in  a  gentle,  soothing  singsong, 
winding  up  with  the  old  slogan,  the  old  fetish,  the 
old  lie: 

"Patience,  brother  Moslems!  Patience  and  a  stout 
heart !  For  Islam  is  in  danger !  The  Russian  is  at  the 
door!" 

Yet,  deep  in  the  heart  of  Mehmet  el-Touati,  deep 
in  the  hearts  of  the  simple  peasant  soldiers,  doubt 
grew,  and  a  terrible  feeling  of  insecurity. 

It  was  not  alone  that  the  Russian  seemed  to  have 
many  allies — Armenians  yesterday,  to-day  Arabs  and 
Syrians,  to-morrow  Greeks  and  Druses  and  Persians. 
All  that  could  be  explained,  was  explained,  by  the 
green-turbaned  priests  who  accompanied  the  army. 
But  they  had  been  told  that  the  Emperor  of  the  North 
who  was  coming  to  their  rescue  was  a  Moslem,  like 
themselves.  Why  then  did  these  Prussian  officers — 
for  the  case  of  brevet-major  Gottlieb  Kriiger  was  not 
an  isolated  one — kick  and  curse  their  brother  Moslems, 
the  Turks?  Why  did  they  spit  on  Islam,  the  ancient 
Faith,  their  own  Faith? 

Mehmet  el-Touati  shrugged  his  shoulders  resignedly. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK  107 

The  Russians  must  be  beaten.  Nothing  else  mat 
tered.  So,  half  an  hour  later,  with  his  company,  he 
was  entrained  once  more  and  under  way,  toward  the 
East  this  time,  until  one  day  the  railroad  tracks  ended 
suddenly  in  a  disconsolate,  pathetic  mixture  of  red- 
hot  sand,  twisted  steel,  and  crumbling  concrete. 

They  marched,  horse,  foot,  and  the  guns,  North, 
Northwest. 

"Where  to?"  ran  the  question  from  regiment  to 
regiment. 

Then  the  answer: 

"To  Russia!" 

And  cheers.  For,  while  they  had  heard  vaguely  of 
England  and  France  and  America,  Russia  alone  ex 
pressed  to  them  all  they  hated  and  feared;  and,  grad 
ually,  their  doubts  and  misgivings  disappeared  as  time 
and  again  they  passed  long  columns  of  prisoners  in 
the  familiar  bottle-green  of  the  Tsar's  soldiery,  and 
as  day  after  day  the  road  tilted  higher  and  the  sharp 
scent  of  the  foot  hills  boomed  down  on  the  wings  of 
the  morning  wind  and  the  ragged  crags  of  Anatolia 
limned  ghostly  out  of  the  purplish-gray  welter. 

Mehmet  el-Touati  was  kept  busy  explaining  to  the 
men  in  his  company,  Southern  and  Western  Turks 
all  but  himself. 

"It's  the  North,"  he  said.  "It's  my  own  country. 
Russia  is  over  yonder — "  sweeping  a  hairy,  brown 
hand  toward  the  hills  that  rolled  down  in  immense, 
overlapping  planes,  blue  and  orchid  and  olive  green, 
while  the  high  horizon  was  etched  with  the  lacy  finials 
of  spruce  and  fir  and  dwarf  oak. 

"My  own  country,"  he  went  on.  "I  can  smell  it, 
feel  it.  My  heart  is  heavy  with  longing." 

A  terrible  nostalgia  was  in  his  soul.    Too,  day  after 


io8  ALIEN  SOULS 

day,  as  the  weeks  of  fighting  had  grown  into  the  drab, 
sad  cycle  of  years,  he  felt  more  old  and  lonely  and 
tired.  There  was  something  ludicrously  pathetic, 
something  almost  tragic,  in  the  picture  of  this  middle 
aged,  bearded,  rheumy  peasant  shouldering  a  musket 
and  fighting  and  killing. 

But  he  did  not  complain,  not  even  in  his  own  heart. 
He  marched  on,  patient,  stolid.  First  there  must  be 
a  victory.  The  Russian  must  be  vanquished,  the  house 
of  the  Osmanli  made  safe. 

Then  peace — and  the  creaking  of  the  water  wheels, 
the  chant  of  the  mullahs,  the  happy  laughter  of  the 
little  children  playing  in  the  sun. 

By  this  time,  since  the  roads  were  narrow,  mere 
trails  made  by  stray  cattle  and  wild  beasts,  the  army 
corps  had  split  into  a  number  of  columns,  each  com 
posed  of  a  half  company  with  its  complement  of  light 
mountain  guns,  taken  into  pieces  and  carried  on  the 
backs  of  small,  mouse-colored  mules;  and  the  half 
company  to  which  Mehmet  el-Touati  belonged  was  the 
rearmost  column,  winding  along  hot,  jagged  roads 
where  occasional  thickets  threw  fleeting  moments  of 
shade,  up  steep  hillsides  where  thick,  purplish-gold  sun 
shafts  cleft  the  black  rags  of  the  fir  trees,  through 
valleys  sweating  with  brassy,  merciless  heat,  past  fields 
of  young  corn  that  spread  beneath  the  pigeon-blue  sky 
like  dull,  sultry  summer  dreams. 

On,  while  their  feet  chafed  and  bled,  while  the 
knapsacks  cut  their  shoulders,  and  the  rifles  felt  like 
hundredweights ! 

A  few  of  the  Seventeenth,  Kurdish  tribesmen 
mostly,  nomads  drafted  on  the  way  from  amongst  the 
black  felt  tents,  had  tried  to  desert. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK  109 

Why  fight  any  more,  had  been  their  sneering  com 
ment,  since  their  pockets  were  lined  with  Syrian  and 
Armenian  gold  and  they  had  their  fill  of  Syrian  and 
Armenian  blood? 

So  they  had  snapped  their  fingers  derisively  and  had 
glided  into  the  night  shadows  like  ghosts,  relying  on 
the  hereditary,  kindly  negligence  of  their  Osmanli 
overlord.  But  they  had  reckoned  without  the  fact  that 
the  latter  was  no  longer  master  in  his  own  house — 
that  the  brevet-major  of  the  company  was  a  Prussian 
drill  sergeant,  reared  and  trained  with  the  Prussian 
ramrod,  the  Prussian  code. 

"Riicksichtslos — inconsiderate  of  everything  except 
duty !"  was  his  watchword,  and  his  slogan  was : 

"I  shall  make  an  example — for  the  sake  of  disci 
pline!" 

He  had  halted  the  marching  column — he  drove  them 
afterwards  to  make  up  for  the  time  he  had  lost — 
until  the  deserters,  one  by  one,  had  been  recaptured, 
courtmartialed,  sentenced  to  death. 

The  melancholy  Turkish  staff  officer  who  was  at 
tached  to  the  Seventeenth  to  act  as  a  sort  of  philo 
sophic,  good-natured  yeast,  had  tried  to  argue  the 
point,  to  reason;  had  said  that  Brevet-Major  Kriiger 
was  making  a  slight  error,  that  he  did  not  know  these 
people. 

"They  are  like  homing  birds,  these  tribesmen,"  he 
had  said.  "If  a  few  of  them  want  to  go,  let  them.  We 
can  always  get  more,  and  you  cannot  catch  the  winds 
of  heaven  with  your  bare  hands.  These  deserters  are 
Kurds,  nomads.,  unreliable  cattle,  while  the  bulk  of 
the  army  is  Turkish.  You  know  yourself  that  the  real 
Turk  is  patient  and  obedient." 

"Makes  no  difference!    Schlechte  Beispiele  verder- 


no  ALIEN  SOULS 

ben  gute  Sit  ten — bad  examples  spoil  good  morals!  If 
we  let  the  Kurds  do  what  they  please,  some  day, 
when  we  least  expect  it,  these  stolid  Turks  of  yours 
will  take  the  bit  between  their  teeth,  and  then  there'll 
be  the  devil  to  pay !  No !  I  am  a  Prussian.  I  will  have 
discipline.  Discipline  is  going  to  win  this  war.  I 
shall  make  an  example  of  these  fellows !" 

Then  a  firing  squad.  Blood  stippling  the  dusty 
ground. 

And  Gottlieb  Kriiger  was  right.  Perhaps,  as  the 
months  dragged  along  on  weary,  bleeding  feet  and 
there  was  no  end  to  suffering  and  dying,  it  was  his 
slogan  of  discipline — with  its  obbligato  accompaniment 
of  courtmartial  and  death — which  kept  the  Seventeenth 
as  a  fighting  unit  fully  as  much  as  the  ancient  fear  and 
hatred  of  the  Russian. 

Then,  one  day,  Mehmet  el-Touati  overheard  a  few 
words  not  meant  for  his  ear;  and,  with  a  suddenness 
that  to  a  Westerner  would  have  seemed  dramatic,  even 
providential,  but  that  to  him,  Turk,  Moslem,  was 
merely  a  prosy  sending  of  Kismet  to  be  accepted  as 
such  and  used,  a  veil  slipped  from  his  eyes  and  slowly, 
in  his  grinding,  bovine  mind,  he  dovetailed  what  he 
overheard  into  relationship  with  himself,  his  own  life, 
his  past  and  present  and  future. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  and  the  company  was 
camping  in  a  little  grove,  spotted  with  purple  lilac 
trees  and  walled  in  with  the  glowing  pink  of  the  horse- 
chestnut.  The  soldiers  had  loosened  the  collars  of 
their  tunics  and  lay  stretched  in  the  checkered,  pleas 
ant  shade,  sipping  quickly  brewed  coffee,  smoking 
acrid  Latakia  tobacco,  talking  of  home,  and  Mehmet 
el-Touati,  on  the  way  to  a  little  spring  to  fill  his 
water  canteen,  happened  to  pass  the  tent  where  the 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TURK 

Prussian  brevet-major  was  sharing  the  contents  of  his 
brandy  flask  with  the  Turkish  staff  officer. 

As  he  passed,  a  few  words  drifted  through  the  tent 
flap,  flew  out  on  the  pinions  of  Fate,  buffeted  against 
the  stolid  mind  of  Mehmet  el-Touati  with  almost  phys 
ical  impact — caused  him  to  tremble  a  little,  then  to 
drop  to  the  ground,  to  creep  close,  to  listen,  tensely, 
with  breath  sucked  in,  lungs  beating  like  trip  hammers. 

"Russia  is  smashed!"  the  Prussian  was  saying  in 
his  halting,  guttural  Turkish.  "The  Russians  have 
signed  a  peace  treaty  with  us,  with  Austria,  with  Bul 
garia,  with  your  country — Turkey.  There'll  be  a  little 
desultory  border  fighting — but  all  danger  is  past.  The 
Russian  is  out  of  the  running." 

"You  are  sure  of  that  ?"  asked  the  other. 

"Absolutely.  Remember  the  despatches  I  received 
this  morning?" 

"Yes." 

"They  were  from  headquarters.  The  peace  treaty 
at  Brest-Litovsk  had  been  signed.  Russia  is  out  of 
the  running — as  harmless  as  a  bear  with  his  teeth  and 
claws  drawn.  And  now — " 

"And  now?"  breathed  the  staff  officer. 

"And  now?"  came  the  silent  echo  in  Mehmet  el- 
Touati's  heart,  as  he  glued  his  ear  against  the  tent. 

"And  now  you  Turks  are  going  to  see  some  real 
fighting.  Of  course  I  am  only  guessing.  But  I  lay 
you  long  odds  that  your  crack  troops — like  this  regi 
ment,  the  Seventeenth — are  going  to  be  sent  to  the 
Western  front,  brigaded  with  Prussians — and  used 
against  the  French  and  British.  Or  perhaps  they'll 
be  sent  to  Albania  to  fight  with  the  Austrians  against 
the  Italians,  or  to  Macedonia  to  stiffen  the  Bulgarians 
a  little." 


H2  ALIEN  SOULS 

"You  mean  to  say  the  war  is  not  over — with  the 
Russian  beaten?"  asked  the  Turkish  staff  officer. 

"Your  war  ?  Yes.  It  is  over.  But  our  war  is  not ! 
And  you  are  going  to  fight  for  us,  my  friend — and 
you  are  going  to  toe  the  mark  and  fight  well.  For — " 
he  laughed  unpleasantly,  "remember  our  Prussian 
slogan — Discipline!  Discipline!" 

Mehmet  el-Touati  crept  away,  into  the  shadow  of 
a  horse-chestnut  tree,  to  think.  But  he  did  not  have 
to  think  long. 

Only  one  fact  stood  out:  the  Russian  was  beaten; 
Islam  was  safe — and  the  house  of  the  Osmanli. 

Nothing  else  mattered. 

The  West  front?     Albania?     Macedonia? 

The  French  and  British  and  Italians? 

No,  no!  He  shook  his  head.  He  knew  nothing 
about  them.  They  were  not  in  his  life,  his  world. 
Russia  was  beaten.  Islam  was  safe,  and  he  had  done 
his  duty,  and  now  he  must  go  home  and  look  after 
his  fields  and  his  wife  and  his  children.  They  had 
been  neglected  so  long. 

He  must  go  soon.  To-day.  This  very  night.  For 
here  he  was  in  the  foot  hills  of  his  own  country, 
where  he  knew  the  roads. 

But — how  ? 

He  remembered  the  Kurds  who  had  tried  to  desert^ 
who  had  been  caught,  courtmartialed,  shot,  by  orders 
of— 

Yes !     By  orders  of  the  Prussian,  the  foreigner ! 

The  Turkish  staff  officer  would  not  care.  He  would 
argue  that  one  man  more  or  less  in  the  company  was 
not  worth  the  trouble  of  halting  the  column,  of  search 
ing  the  surrounding  valleys  and  mountains  with  a  fine- 
tooth  comb. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  JURK          u3 

Thus — there  was  just  one  way — 

And  so,  that  night,  with  no  hatred  in  his  heart  but 
with  a  Moslem's  implacable  logic  guiding  his  hand, 
Mehmet  el-Touati  killed  the  Prussian  officer  and  took 
the  road  toward  his  own  country. 


MORITURI 

(An  Episode  of  the  Balkan  War) 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 
CAPTAIN  BORIS  PLOTKINE,  Third  Bulgarian  Infantry. 

CAPTAIN  MEMET  ABDERRAMANN  TOUATI,  First  Turk 
ish  Cavalry. 

LANCE-CORPORAL  NADJ   HANIECH,   Second   Battery 
Turkish  Horse  Gunners. 

SCENE  : — Represents  a  battlefield  in  Macedonia.  It 
is  the  early  dawn  of  morning.  The  sky  is  pink  and 
silver  and  orange,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  there 
are  the  shadowy,  grim  outlines  of  dead  soldiers,  Turks 
and  Bulgarians,  dead  horses,  broken  wheels  and  dis 
mounted  gun-limbers.  A  thick,  humid  haze  rises  from 
the  slimy  ground,  and  there  is  the  acrid  smell  of  battle, 
— blood  and  powder  and  putrescence  and  dirt.  In  the 
far  distance  are  heard  the  crunching  wheels  of  commis 
sariat  wagons,  the  heavy  grumble  of  artillery,  and  once 
in  a  while  the  sharp  hissing  of  musketry  fire. 

TIME: — November,  1912. 

DISCOVERED: — Plotkine     and     Touati,     both    badly 

wounded. 

114 


MORITURI  115 

PLOTKINE  (writhing  on  the  ground;  moaning) 
Oh,  Holy  Kyrill  and  all  the  dear  Saints — this  is  in 
sufferable.    I  can't  stand  it. 

TOUATI  (Slowly  and  painfully  turning  his  head  in  the 

direction  of  Plotkine) 
You'll  have  to  stand  it,  comrade. 

PLOTKINE 
Who's  there? — a  friend? 

TOUATI 

No.  I  am  of  the  First  Turkish  Cavalry.  I  am  Cap 
tain — but  never  mind  my  name.  I  do  not  suppose  a 
ceremonious  introduction  is  necessary  under  the  cir 
cumstances. 

PLOTKINE 
Come  over  and  give  a  chap  a  bit  of  help,  will  you? 

TOUATI 
I  am  awfully  sorry,  but     .     .     . 

PLOTKINE  (interrupting} 

Oh,  you're  wounded  yourself,  are  you? — Can  you 
move? 

TOUATI 

Not  as  much  as  I'd  like  to.  A  piece  of  shrapnel 
struck  me,  and  one  of  my  legs  is  shattered — it's  only 
just  making  a  bluff  at  hanging  together  by  a  shred  of 
skin. 

PLOTKINE 

I  got  mine  through  the  chest — right  chest.  (Short 
pause.)  You  talk  jolly  good  Bulgarian.  (Another 
pause. )  I  say,  comrade,  there  must  be  a  Turkish  am 
bulance  corps  kicking  about  here  somewhere.  I  can't 


ii6  ALIEN  SOULS 

speak  a  word  of  Turkish — and  talking  hurts  me  so — 
my  chest — you  know.  Don't  you  think  you  could  call 
them? 

TOUATI 

Quite  unnecessary,  captain.  There's  nobody  here, 
nobody  who  could  help  us.  The  column  marched  away 
long  ago.  You  see,  we  two  are  lying  in  a  sort  of  hole 
in  the  ground.  That's  why  they  didn't  notice  us.  Oh, 
well — Allah's  will — 

PLOTKINE  (with  sudden,  helpless  fury) 
God's  curse  on  it, — so  we  are  lost — what? — help 
less? 

TOUATI 
Yes,  captain.    You're  perfectly  right. 

PLOTKINE  (after  a  short  pause) 
But  couldn't  we  help  each  other  ? — somehow  ? 

TOUATI 

I  don't  think  I  can  do  a  thing.  I  am  very  weak, 
you  know.  I've  lost  so  much  blood.  You  see,  it  took 
me  nearly  all  night  to  crawl  six  feet — a  little  bit  away 
from  my  brother — 

PLOTKINE 
From  your  brother  ? 

TOUATI  (passionless) 

Yes.  He's  dead,  too.  He  was  such  a  nice,  Brave 
young  lad.  But  you  see,  this  confounded  heat — and 
then  this  wretched  humidity — and  so  he's  been  getting 
rather  smelly.  Nothing  against  him,  you  know,  noth 
ing  against  him.  But  I  had  to  move — and  you  see,  it 
took  me  all  night — crawling — crawling — 


MORITURI  117 

PLOTKINE 

And  I  can't  move  at  all,  not  at  all.  Even  when  I 
try  to  breathe  hard,  the  air  whistles  through  my  lungs 
as  if  there's  a  draft  somewhere  in  my  chest.  And  a 
ton  of  rock  seems  to  lie  on  my  legs.  I  can't  turn  my 
head.  I  can't  see  you.  Can  you  see  me? 

TOUATI 
Oh,  yes.    I  am  looking  at  you. 

PLOTKINE 

Then  tell  me:  how  far  distant  are  we  from  each 
other? 

TOUATI 

I  should  judge  about  three  yards.  But  for  all  it 
would  help  you  or  me  it  might  as  well  be  three  thou 
sand  miles. 

(Both  are  silent  for  several  minutes;  Plotkine  sighs.) 

PLOTKINE 
I  am  hungry.    Got  anything  to  eat  about  you? 

TOUATI 

Yes.  A  few  dried  dates.  Here,  look  out.  I'll 
throw  them  over  so  that  you  can  reach  them  with 
your  left  hand.  (He  throws  over  a  handful  of  dried 
dates  to  Plotkine,  who  takes  them  and  eats.) 

PLOTKINE  (between  bites) 

Thanks  awfully.  (Laughs.)  You  aim  better  than 
did  your  artillery  at  the  Tschataldja  lines. 

TOUATI  (very  stiffly) 
I  beg  your  pardon. 
(Long  silence.) 


n8  ALIEN  SOULS 

PLOTKINE 
So  you  think  there's  no  hope  for  us,  captain. 

TOUATI    • 
Only  a  miracle  would  help  us. 

PLOTKINE 
I  shall  pray  to  my  Patron  Saint. 

TOUATI 

Well — if  it  gives  you  any  pleasure — 

(Plotkine  prays  fervently  for  a  few  minutes.  Then 
there  is  complete  silence.  They  do  not  exchange  a  word 
for  over  half  an  hour.) 

PLOTKINE  (suddenly) 
Ho  there,  comrade !    Are  you  dead  already? 

TOUATI 
No,  not  yet. 

PLOTKINE 
It  must  be  getting  on  towards  noon. 

TOUATI 

I  think  you're  mistaken.  It's  hardly  half  an  hour 
since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  making  your  acquaintance 
— and  that  was  early  in  the  morning. 

PLOTKINE 

Which  one  of  us  is  going  to  cash  in  first,  do  you 
think? 

TOUATI 

I  think  I'll  go  out  first.  You  see,  the  chances  are 
that  I'll  get  gangrene  very  soon  now. 


MORITURI  119 

PLOTKINE  (after  a  short  silence) 
I  say,  captain.    You  speak  very  excellent  Bulgarian. 
Where  did  you  learn  it  ? 

TOUATI 

I? — Oh,  I  lived  in  Sofia  for  two  years — studied 
there  at  the  Polytechnicon. 

PLOTKINE  (excited) 

You  don't  say  so !  Then  you  must  know  Professor 
Nyachnioff  ? 

TOUATI 
I  certainly  do. 

PLOTKINE 

Isn't  that  odd?  You  know,  I  married  his  daughter 
— little  Lisaveta. 

TOUATI 

Oh,  I  remember  her.  I  saw  her  once  when  I  called 
on  her  father.  She  was  a  very  charming  girl. 

PLOTKINE 

Yes,  isn't  she?  She  is  an  angel,  I  tell  you.  And 
how  she  loves  me — you've  no  idea,  captain.  If  she 
knew  that  I'm  lying  here,  dying — why,  the  poor  little 
kiddie — she'd  cry  her  eyes  out — I  tell  you,  she'd  kill 
herself. 

TOUATI  (a  little  doubtful) 
You  think  so? 

PLOTKINE  (angry) 

Don't  you  believe  it?  I  tell  you  she'll  kill  herself 
when  she  reads  my  name  in  the  list  of  those  killed  in 
battle.  You'll  see. 


120  ALIEN  SOULS 

TOUATI  (with  a  laugh) 

Pardon,  comrade,  but  I  don't  think  I'll  see.  Also, 
I  don't  think  we'll  be  in  the  list  of  casualties.  We'll 
be  amongst  those  who  are  reported  missing ;  don't  you 
think  so? 

PLOTKINE 

God !  that's  right.  The  poor  little  girl— that'll  make 
it  worse  for  her.  There  she'll  go  on  hoping  for  months 
and  months.  (He  cries.) 

TOUATI 
Did  that  relieve  your  feelings,  captain? 

PLOTKINE 

Oh,  my  body  just  feels  paralyzed.  I  tell  you,  I 
can't  even  move  my  fingers  any  more.  Damn  this 
war!  What  are  we  fighting  about,  anyway?  Just 
because  you  confounded  Turks  insist  on  having  Mace 
donia. 

TOUATI 
No — because  you  are  trying  to  steal  it  from  us, 

PLOTKINE 

Yes — as  you  wish.  Makes  no  difference  now.  It's 
all  the  same.  Gracious  Heavens,  Tsar  Ferdinand  had 
enough  territory,  God  knows.  What  does  he  waat 
this  infernal  desert  for?  I  tell  you,  when  I  was  a 
child,  hopping  and  playing  about  the  ryefields,  I  had 
no  idea  I'd  have  to  die  here,  in  this  desert.  And  poor 
little  Lisaveta  will  also  die — she  loves  me  so  much, 
the  dear  little  girl.  (Pause.)  Why,  there  is  no  sense 
in  all  this — this  fighting— this  dying—  Tell  me,  where 
is  the  sense  of  all  this  ? 


MORITURI  121 

TOUATI 

You  Christians  are  forever  asking  questions,  and 
then  you  either  get  no  answer  at  all,  or  you  get  sev 
eral  answers  to  the  same  question — which  is  worse. 
We  have  war — well — and  we  are  soldiers — and  so  of 
course  we  die.  What's  there  extraordinary  about 
that? 

PLOTKINE 

Yes — but  we  die  because  of  this  confounded  Mace 
donia — this  damned  desert — where  nothing  grows — 

TOUATI  (grimly) 

Well,  captain,  even  a  desert  will  grow  wheat  if  you 
give  it  enough  manure — and  just  look  about  you; 
look  at  yourself  and  at  me — smell  our  dead  comrades. 
Oh,  there'll  be  enough  manure,  enough  stinking  dung 
for  a  good,  rich  crop.  (Laughs,)  Everything  for 
which  one  dies  is  good.  And  then,  there  are  so 
many  human  beings  in  this  world.  What  do  we 
count,  you  and  I  ?  Just  think  how  many  millions  will 
come  after  us. 

PLOTKINE 

I  have  no  children.  And  what  possible  good  is  it 
to  Bulgaria  if  I  die  here?  The  priests  will  babble  as 
before,  the  tschinovniks  will  steal  as  before — and  the 
comrades  who  return  home  will  brag  about  their  he 
roic  deeds  and  their  decorations.  Nobody  will  think 
of  me.  My  parents  are  dead — and  Lisaveta  will  kill 
herself — 

TOUATI 

Yes,  yes,  she'll  kill  herself.  But,  captain,  now's 
your  time  to  think  of  your  former  life,  to  think  of  all 
life  meant  to  you,  of  all  you've  accomplished — 


122  ALIEN  SOULS 

PLOTKINE  (with  a  grim  laugh) 
What? — I  should  think  of  what  my  life  meant  to 
me?  Of  my  advancement  in  the  army,  I  suppose, 
what? — new  uniforms — parties  given  for  Lisaveta — 
an  accolade  by  Tsar  Ferdinand.  Why,  it's  all  over, 
man — and  when  I  think  of  it,  it  seems  all  so  horribly 
prosy,  so  horribly  cheap  and  indifferent.  Does  it  con 
sole  you  to  think  about  your  old  life? 

TOUATI 

Yes.  I  think  that  I've  always  done  my  duty,  in 
life  and  in  death.  Also  I've  obeyed  my  Faith.  That's 
enough. 

PLOTKINE  (sneering) 

All  for  Turkey.     All  for  the  Crescent,  what? 

TOUATI  (quietly) 

No.  All  for  myself.  If  I  learned  anything,  it  was 
for  myself.  If  I  achieved  anything,  it  was  for  my 
self.  And  thus  it  was  for  Turkey  and  for  my  Faith, 
even  thus.  What  more  could  I  do? 

PLOTKINE 
And — your  wife? 

TOUATI 

The  day  I  left  for  this  war,  I  asked  her  to  buy  her 
widow-dress. 

PLOTKINE 

Do  you  think  she'll  kill  herself— like  Lisaveta? 

TOUATI 

No.  She'll  marry  again.  You  see,  we  have  no 
children.  And  now  so  many  of  us  Turks  died  m  this 
war so  we  need  more  children,  more  sons — to  fight 


MORITURI  123 

again — a  few  years  hence — to  die  again — perhaps  to 
win — 

PLOTKINE 
Oh,  you  wish  to  reconquer  what  you  have  lost? 

TOUATI 
Of  course. 

PLOTKINE 

Yes,  I  see;  you  love  your  country.  And  I  love 
mine.  But  must  we  die  on  the  battlefield  to  prove  our 
love? 

TOUATI 
It's  the  best  proof. 

PLOTKINE 
No.     It's  the  last  proof. 

TOUATI 

The  last  proof  only  for  ourselves.  There  are  others 
will  come  after  us. 

PLOTKINE  (suddenly,  with  a  loud,  gurgling  voice) 
Oh,  Mary,  Mother  of  Jesus,  pray —     (He  dies.) 

TOUATI  (calls) 

Oh,  captain,  captain —  (Pause.)  Oh,  he's  dead. 
I  knew  when  he  asked  me,  that  he'd  go  out  before  I 
would.  A  shot  through  the  chest — of  course.  But 
why  should  I  have  told  him  ?  (Smiles.)  And  I  don't 
think  Lisaveta  will  kill  herself.  (Pause.)  After  all, 
it's  quite  indifferent  one  way  or  the  other.  (Laughs.) 
Queer  people,  these  Christians — 

(Lance-Corporal  Nadj  Haniech  appears  from  the 
distance;  Touati  hears  his  footsteps,  and  calls  to  him.) 


124  ALIEN  SOULS 

TOUATI 

Ho,  there! — 

HANIECH  (running  toward  him) 
Coming,  coming — 

TOUATI  (looking  up  at  him) 

No  use  trying  to  get  me  to  the  hospital,  corporal. 
But  I  am  suffering.  I  also  would  like  to  smoke — got 
a  cigarette  about  you? 

HANIECH 

Yes,  captain.  (He  gives  a  cigarette  to  Touati  and 
lights  it.) 

TOUATI  (smoking) 

Just  wait  until  I've  finished  my  smoke  and  then — 
(points  to  Haniech's  revolver) — you  don't  mind,  do 
you?  You  see,  I  am  suffering — and  I  can't  be 
saved — 

(Haniech  nods  his  head,  squats  on  his  heels  near 
Touati,  and  loads  his  revolver,  while  Touati  finishes 
his  cigarette.) 


CURTAIN 


THE  JESTER 

FATE  wrote  the  first  chapter  of  this  tale  before  either 
Zado  Krelekian  or  Mohammed  Yar  came  to  New 
York;  long  before  the  transatlantic  steamship  lines, 
seeing  their  European  immigration  business  dwindle, 
thanks  to  improved  wage  conditions,  began  to  invade 
Asiatic  Turkey  with  agents  who  spoke  the  many  lan 
guages  of  that  motley  and  illy  patched  empire,  who 
gave  untold  promises  and  were  guilty  of  untold  lies, 
who  plastered  ancient  walls,  tumbledown  mosques, 
and  battered,  crumbling  bazaars  with  garish  six-sheet 
posters  that  pictured  the  New  World  as  an  immense 
block  of  real  estate,  entirely  paved  with  minted  gold 
and  especially  protected  by  the  blessed  hand  of  Ali. 

Fate  wrote  the  tragedy  of  this  tale  when,  shortly 
after  Creation  itself,  it  made  a  compromise  with  Al- 
Shaitan  the  Stoned,  the  Father  of  Lies,  by  planting 
the  seed  of  hatred  in  two  races,  Armenian  and  Kurd, 
the  first  Christian,  the  second  Moslem;  a  curse  which 
in  the  swing  of  the  centuries  stretched  beyond  the 
western  vilayets  of  the  Ottoman  Empire,  across  the 
ragged,  frayed  basalt  frontiers  into  the  Caucasus  and 
Southern  Russia,  the  plains  of  soft,  lisping  Persia, 
west  into  the  yellow,  purple-blotched  glare  of  Egypt, 
and  west  again  .  .  .  even  beyond  the  sea,  following 
the  churned  lane  of  Cunarder  and  White  Star  boat, 

125 


128  ALIEN  SOULS 

into  New  York,  there  to  abut  in  the  maze  and  reek 
and  riot  of  half  a  dozen  tired,  melancholy  old  streets 
that,  a  few  blocks  away  from  the  greasy  drab  of  the 
river,  cluster  toward  the  Rector  Street  Elevated  sta 
tion,  toward  the  pride  of  the  Wall  Street  mart,  as  far 
even  as  busy,  bartering,  negligent  Broadway. 

Smelly,  wheezy,  threadbare  old  streets. 

Gray,  flat,  dull.  Powdered  here  and  there  with  the 
mottled  brick-red  of  a  once  patrician  house,  a  stable 
or  a  garage  that  generations  earlier  had  been  a  stately 
residence.  Streets  branching  west,  north,  and  south, 
in  an  irregular  pattern  of  rays;  rays  of  wretched, 
lumpy  cobblestone  and  wretcheder  gutters;  rays  par 
alleled  by  rickety  frame  dwellings  that  bring  you 
straight  back  to  the  days  when  square-rigged  clippers 
rode  the  waters  and  when  men  imported  their  liquor 
from  Holland  and  called  it  genever. 

Tragic  streets,  fit  background  for  a  tragic  tale. 

Not  that  this  tale  is  entirely  tragic. 

For  both  tragedy  and  comedy  are  a  matter  of  view 
point,  perhaps  of  race  and  faith  and  prejudice  (a  wise 
Arab  once  said  that  prejudice  is  but  another  name  for 
race  and  faith)  ;  and  if  your  sense  of  humor  be  slightly 
crooked,  slightly  acrid,  in  other  words  Oriental,  you 
will  laugh  at  the  thought  of  Zado  Krelekian  cooped 
up  in  the  back  room  of  his  house,  with  windows  nailed 
down  and  curtains  and  shutters  tightly  closed  both 
summer  and  winter,  the  doors  hermetically  sealed,  with 
fear  forever  stewing  in  his  brain,  in  his  very  ears  and 
eyes,  as  he  imagines  he  can  see  or  hear  the  approach 
of  those  whom  he  dreads,  praying  at  times  so  as  to 
be  on  the  safe  side  of  ultimate  salvation,  praying  quite 
fervently  to  the  God  and  the  many  saints  of  his  ancient 
Armenian  church,  in  whom  he  does  not  really  believe. 


THE  JESTER  127 

You  will  also  laugh  at  the  picture  of  Aziza  water 
ing  the  starved  geraniums  in  her  window-box  and 
looking  from  her  balcony  across  Washington  Street 
for  the  return  of  her  lover;  with  her  braided  bluish- 
black  hair  that  looks  as  if  cigarette  smoke  had  been 
blown  through  it,  her  immense,  opaque  eyes,  her  nar 
row,  pleasurable  hands,  her  tiny  feet,  the  soles  stained 
crimson  with  henna,  the  big  toes  and  the  ankles  ablaze 
with  gold  and  precious  stones. 

And  finally  you  may  smile  tolerantly  at  the  thought 
of  Mohammed  Yar,  once  a  ragged,  thin-mouthed, 
hook-nosed  Kurd  tribesman,  but  dressed  to-day  in 
swagger  tweeds  that  bear  the  Fifth  Avenue  label,  his 
brown,  predatory  fingers  encircled  by  rings  of  great 
value,  his  shirt  of  silk  and  embroidered  over  the  heart 
with  an  extravagant  monogram  in  lavender  and  pale 
green,  his  shoes  handstitched  and  bench-made;  lord 
ing  it  gloriously  and  arrogantly  over  Krelekian's  Ar 
menian  clerks,  spending  Krelekian's  money,  and  at 
times  kissing  Aziza,  Krelekian's  wife. 

"There  is  no  power  nor  strength  save  in  Allah,  the 
One!"  he  says  with  typical  Moslem  hypocrisy  every 
time  he  kisses  her  pouting  lips.  Always  he  smiles 
when  he  kisses  her.  Always  he  snaps  his  fingers  de 
risively  in  the  direction  of  the  closed  shutters  behind 
which  Zado  Krelekian  shivers  and  prays. 

Thus  he  had  laughed  and  snapped  his  fingers  that 
day,  half  a  year  earlier,  when  he  had  walked  down 
the  length  of  Washington  Street,  supple  shoulders 
thrown  back,  great,  hairy  hands  swinging  up  and  down 
like  flails,  elbowing  out  of  his  path  Armenian  and 
Syrian  as  if  he  were  back  in  his  native  Turkish  village 
of  Khinis,  up  in  the  hills,  between  Erzerum  and  Biltis. 

There  was  angry  murmuring  at  his  back;  curses; 


128  ALIEN  SOULS 

occasionally  a  fist  furtively  clenched.  But  none  chal 
lenged  his  insolent  progress.  For  the  man  was  lean 
and  thin-mouthed  and  hook-nosed :  a  Kurd  of  Kurds ; 
and  a  dozen  years  of  American  freedom  cannot  wipe 
out  the  livid  fear  of  the  centuries. 

"Out  of  my  way,  sons  of  burnt  fathers!"  snarled 
Mohammed  Yar,  studying  the  sign-boards  above  the 
stores,  Armenian  all,  Kabulian  and  Jamjotchian  and 
Nasakian,  and  what-not,  advertising  all  the  world's 
shopworn  goods  at  a  shopworn  discount;  and  then, 
taking  a  sallow,  raven-haired  youth  by  the  neck  and 
twirling  him  like  a  top :  "Where  does  Krelekian  live 
— Zado  Krelekian?" 

The  evening  before,  the  youth  had  learned  in  the 
Washington  Street  Night  School  about  all  men's  be 
ing  born  free  and  equal,  and  so  he  mumbled  some 
thing  hectic  and  nervous  as  to  this  being  a  free  coun 
try,  and  what  did  the  other  mean  by — 

"Answer  me,  dog!"  came  the  Kurd's  even,  passion 
less  voice.  "Where  is  the  house  of  Zado  Krelekian?" 
He  tightened  his  grip. 

The  Armenian  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  but 
no  policeman  was  in  sight.  He  deckled  to  fence  for 
time,  since  he  did  not  trust  the  stranger's  intention. 

"What  do  you  want  with  Zado  Krelekian?"  he 
asked. 

Mohammed  Yar  slowly  closed  one  eye. 

"I  want  words  with  him.  Honeyed  words,  brother 
of  inquisitiveness.  Words  smooth  as  silk,  straight 
as  a  lance,  soft  as  a  virgin's  kiss.  Krelekian  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  much  beloved." 

"A  friend  of  yours?  Ahi!"  sighed  the  Armenian, 
in  memory  of  past  happenings  in  his  native  vilayet. 


THE  JESTER  129 

<fWas  there  ever  friendship  between  your  race  and 
mine?" 

"Indeed,  there  was  not,  goat  of  a  smell  most  goat 
ish  !"  came  the  pleasant  rejoinder.  "But  this  is  Amer 
ica.  A  free  land,  say  you !  A  land  of  brothers,  say 
I!  Therefore,  tell  me,  or" — with  a  significant  back 
sweep  of  his  right  hand — "I  may  think  too  much  of 
this  being  a  land  of  brothers,  and,  being  older  than 
you,  may  feel  morally  forced  to  chasten  your  reck 
less  spirit  with  many  and  painful  beatings,  as  be 
comes  an  elder  and  loving  brother  solicitous  of  his 
younger  brother's  welfare.  Do  you  get  me?"  he 
wound  up  disconcertingly  in  plain  American  English. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!  .  .  .  Zado  Krelekian  lives  at  84 
West  Street." 

"Is  he  rich?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"Is  he  happy  and  honored  and  contented?" 

"Yes.     None  more  so." 

"Good!     Good!     And — is  his  wife  still  with  him?" 

"Yes."  The  young  Armenian  essayed  a  lopsided 
smile.  "She  is  with  him,  and  she  is  beautiful  and — " 

"Silence,  dog!  Do  not  besmirch  a  woman  with 
foul  praise,  or — " 

But  the  Armenian  twisted  quickly  away  from  his 
grip  and  ran  down  the  street,  rubbing  his  shoulder, 
while  Mohammed  Yar  turned  into  West  Street,  look 
ing  at  the  numbers  of  the  houses  until  he  reached 
Eighty-Four. 

Eighty-Four  was  a  shop,  swollen  and  bulbous  with 
merchandise  that  tumbled  across  the  counter  and 
through  the  open  door,  spilling  into  the  street  itself  in 
a  motley,  crazy  avalanche.  There  were  bolts  of  silk 


130  ALIEN  SOULS 

and  linen  and  wool;  wooden  boxes  filled  with  Syrian 
and  Greek  sweets;  figs  and  dates,  raisins  from  the 
isles  of  Greece,  and  brittle,  yellow  Persian  tobacco 
tied  up  in  bundles;  pyramids  of  strange,  high-colored 
vegetables;  slippers  of  flimsy  red  and  orange  leather. 
Dried  fish  there  was,  and  incense  in  crystals;  oil  of 
rose  and  jessamine  and  geranium  in  slim  bottles  picked 
out  with  leaf  gold;  carved  walking-sticks  from 
Smyrna;  inlaid  metal  work  from  Damascus;  black 
and  white  veils  heavy  with  twisted  silver  and  gold, 
rugs  from  many  lands,  coffee  and  tea  and  what-not. 

The  whole  seemed  prosperous,  and  prosperous,  too, 
seemed  the  youngish,  stout  Armenian  merchant — about 
a  year  Mohammed  Yar's  junior — who  stood  in  the 
doorway,  hands  in  pockets,  contentedly  puffing  at  a 
fat,  crimson-and-gold-banded  cigar. 

Peaceful  he  looked,  and  rosy,  and  well  fed ;  pleased 
with  himself,  his  neighbors,  and  the  world  in  general. 
And  then,  quite  suddenly,  his  knees  began  to  tremble. 
An  ashen  pallor  overspread  his  features.  He  dropped 
his  cigar.  Up  went  his  right  eyebrow  and  his  upper 
lip  in  a  curling,  nervous  twitch,  and  with  a  rapidity 
that  belied  his  solid  bulk  he  tried  to  rush  into  his  shop. 

But  he  was  not  quick  enough. 

For  Mohammed  Yar's  hairy  hand  fell  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  he  heard  the  Kurd's  raucous  voice: 

"Good  morning,   friend!" 

"Go-goo — go-ood  morning,"  stammered  Krelekian, 
feebly  trying  to  twist  away;  and  the  Kurd  broke  into 
low  laughter. 

"Allah!"  he  said.  "Is  this  the  way  in  which  you 
welcome  the  man  who  has  traveled  many  miles  for  the 
pleasure  of  shaking  your  honest  hand,  of  feasting  his 
eyes  on  your  honest  face?  Shame  on  you,  Zado  of 


THE  JESTER  131 

my  heart!" — and  he  slipped  his  arm  through  that  of 
the  other  and  begged  him  to  lead  the  way  where  they 
could  sip  their  coffee  and  smoke  their  pipes  in 
peace  .  .  .  "and  speak  of  our  home  in  Turkey,  of  the 
olden  days  when  you  and  I  were  even  as  twin  brothers 
rocked  in  the  same  cradle!'* 

Krelekian  sighed.  He  looked  to  right  and  left,  at 
his  clerks  who  were  behind  the  counter  attending  to 
the  wants  of  the  half-dozen  customers.  But  not  a 
word  did  he  utter  in  protest.  He  walked  along  by 
the  side  of  the  Kurd;  for  beneath  the  man's  ragged, 
shabby,  hand-me-down  coat  he  could  feel  the  sharp 
angle  of  the  crooked  dagger-handle  pressing  into  his 
side — like  a  message. 

"Ah!"  gently  breathed  Mohammed  Yar  as  he  sat 
down  on  a  carved,  inlaid  Syrian  chair  in  the  back 
room  of  the  shop,  facing  his  host,  who  was  still  as 
livid  as  a  dead  man's  bones,  still  furtive-eyed,  shak 
ing  in  every  limb.  "This  is  good!  Good,  by  mine 
own  honor!  It  is  as  if  we  were  back  in  our  home 
village,  in  Khinis  of  the  hills,  friend  of  me !" 

He  made  a  great  gesture  with  his  hairy,  high-veined 
hand,  that  cut  through  the  clustered  shadows  of  the 
little  room  like  a  dramatic  incident,  that  brushed 
through  the  sudden,  clogged  stillness  like  a  conjurer/ s 
wand,  sweeping  away  the  drab  grime  and  riot  of  West 
Street,  and  conjuring  up  the  glare,  the  acrid  sweet 
ness,  the  booming,  dropping  snow  chill  of  the  little 
hill  village  where  both  had  lived — and  loved. 

Clear  across  Zado  Krelekian's  livid  realization  of 
the  present  slashed  the  picture  of  the  little  town, 
Khinis,  on  the  way  to  Erzerum,  and  what  had  hap 
pened  there  between  him,  not  then  a  well-fed,  rosy, 


132  ALIEN  SOULS 

prosperous  New  York  shop-keeper,  Mohammed  Yar, 
not  then  dressed  in  the  slops  of  the  New  York  water 
front,  and  Aziza,  the  blue-haired  girl  with  the  henna- 
stained  feet  and  the  anklets  that  tinkled,  tinkled 
mockingly. 

Three  years  ago.  And  one  day.  And  he  had  tried 
to  forget  that  day! 

Three  years  rolled  back  like  a  curtain.  And  the 
happenings  of  that  one  day,  popping  back  again  into 
the  cells  of  his  remembrance,  sitting  in  a  solemn, 
graven  row,  and  jeering  at  him  because  of  the  pitiful 
futility  of  it ! 

A  cold,  raw  hill  day  it  had  been,  with  cottony  snow- 
flakes  thudding  softly  and  with  the  old  mosque  of 
Hajji  AH  the  Sweetmeat-Seller  raised  on  its  broad 
marble  steps  as  on  a  base,  lifting  the  apex  of  its  wide 
horseshoe  gate  forty  feet  up  in  the  air,  and  the  gate 
way — how  well  he  remembered  it  all,  here  in  the  flat, 
melancholy  drab  of  West  Street! — covered  with 
arabesques  of  mosaic  faience  in  green  and  peacock 
blue  and  deep  rose  and  bearing  its  holy  message  in 
conventionalized  mushakil  Arabic  characters. 

"In  the  name  of  Allah,  the  One,  the  All-Merciful, 
the  All-Knowing,  the  King  of  the  Day  of  Judgment !" 
read  the  inscription,  and  always  he  had  feared  it,  he 
and  the  others  of  his  race,  like  something  terribly 
pious  and  terribly  ironic,  since  it  expressed  the  arro 
gant,  harsh  faith  of  the  Kurd  masters  who  ruled  them, 
and  beat  them,  and  robbed  them,  and  at  times  killed 
them  because  of  the  sport  of  it. 

Well  he  remembered  how  he  had  trembled — even 
as  he  was  trembling  now — when  Mohammed  Yar, 
dressed  in  sweeping  woolen  cloak,  leather  sandals,  and 


THE  JESTER  133 

tall,  rakish  fur  cap,  had  come  out  of  the  mosque  of 
Hajji  the  Sweetmeat-Seller,  had  whispered  a  rapid 
word  to  him,  and  had  walked  on  by  his  side,  towards 
the  coffee-house  of  Malakian,  where  they  had  sat 
down. 

He  remembered  his  own  brazen  words. 

Yes.     Brazen. 

For,  careful  man,  he  had  taken  with  him  that  day 
Musa  Lahada,  the  lean,  sardonic  Turkish  Jew  who 
was  attached  as  dragoman  to  the  British  Consulate 
and  thus  protected  by  the  Union  Jack. 

"I  saw  and  heard  the  whole  thing,  Mohammed  Yar," 
he  had  said.  "I  was  passing  through  Nahassim 
Street,  and  I  heard  the  quarrel,  the  insults.  I  saw 
the  blow — " 

"He  insulted  me  first !"  the  Kurd  had  cried.  "That 
cursed  Frankish  infidel!  He  struck  the  first  blow!" 

"True;  but  you  drew  steel  and  killed.  I  saw  it.  I 
know  where  you  hid  the  corpse — back  of  the  camel 
stables  in  Farid  Khan's  Gully.  And  I  have  witnesses." 

"Armenian  witnesses !  Fathers  of  pigs,  and  sons  of 
pigs !  Liars — " 

"Armenians?  Yes!  Fathers  of  pigs,  and  sons  of 
pigs?  Perhaps!  But  not  liars,  Mohammed  Yar. 
They  saw  the  thing  which  is  true,  and  they  will  swear 
to  it.  And  Armenians  or  not,  pigs  or  not,  they  will 
be  believed  by  the  British  consul.  For  the  man  whom 
you  killed  was  an  Englishman,  and — " 

"And — ?"  Mohammed  Yar  had  asked  with  a  side 
long  glance. 

"Death  is  bitter — bitter  as  the  fruit  which  grows 
near  the  Bahretlut!" 

"But — must  there  be  death?" 


134  ALIEN  SOULS 

"No,  Mohammed  Yar.  I  am  willing  to  stuff  my 
mouth  with  silence  for  a  consideration,  supplemented 
by  an  oath." 

"Name  the  oath  first,"  the  Kurd  had  laughed.  "It 
is  cheaper  than  the  consideration — when  dealing  with 
an  Armenian,  O  Father  of  Compound  Interest !" 

"Possibly  cheaper."  Krelekian  had  inclined  his 
head.  "Here  it  is,  for  you  to  take  or  leave,  accord 
ing  to  how  you  prefer  life  or  death.  You  must  swear 
on  the  Koran,  by  your  own  salvation  and  that  of  your 
parents,  by  the  honor  of  your  mother  and  your  sisters, 
by  the  blood  of  the  Prophet  and  the  horns  of  the  Arch 
angel  Gabriel — you  must  swear  a  most  sacred  oath 
that,  as  long  as  you  live,  there  shall  be  no  killing  nor 
beating  in  revenge  of  what  I  shall  ask  of  you,  that 
never  for  what  is  happening  to-day  between  you  and 
me  will  you  take  toll  with  steel  or  bullet  or  whip  or 
fist — with  blood — nor  with  pain — neither  you  nor  your 
tribesmen  nor  your  friends!  My  life  must  be  sacred 
to  you,  and  inviolate." 

"Good !  I  swear  it.  Yes,  yes,  yes" — as  the  Arme 
nian  had  insisted  on  the  exact  phraseology.  "Never 
shall  I  take  toll,  neither  I  nor  my  friends  nor  my 
tribesmen,  neither  with  steel  nor  bullet  nor  whip  nor 
fist.  I  swear  it  on  the  Koran,  by  my  own  and  my 
parents'  salvation,  by  the  honor  of  my  mother  and  my 
sisters,  by  the  blood  of  the  Prophet  and  the  horns  of 
the  Archangel  Gabriel!  May  my  right  hand  dry  on 
my  body — may  I  eat  dirt — may  God  strike  me  dumb 
and  deaf  and  blind — if  I  break  this  solemn  oath! 
And  now — what  is  the  consideration  for  your  silence 
in  that  little  killing  matter?" 

"It  is  simple,  Mohammed  Yar.  Only  a  woman 
whom  you  love  and  whom  I  love,  but  who,  being  a 


THE  JESTER  135 

gypsy,  loves  neither  you  nor  me,  but  only  gold  and 
silver  and  jewels  and  sweets  and  laughter." 

"Aziza?"  the  Kurd  had  whispered,  the  blood  mount 
ing  to  his  high  cheek  bones. 

"Yes;  Aziza." 

Aziza!     The  gypsy! 

Up  there  on  the  second  floor  above  his  shop,  glisten 
ing  among  the  heaped  green  cushions  of  her  couch 
like  an  exotic  beetle  in  a  nest  of  fresh  leaves;  with 
her  tiny  oval  of  a  face  that  through  the  meshes  of  her 
bluish-black  hair  looked  like  the  face  of  a  golden 
statue  with  living  eyes — and  the  expression  in  those 
eyes,  hard,  keen,  narrow,  like  the  curling  shimmer  of 
moon-rays  on  forged  steel  .  .  . 

For  he  had  married  Aziza  after  the  Kurd,  con 
fronted  by  the  inevitable,  had  given  in.  He  had  taken 
her  to  New  York  with  him.  For  love  of  her  he  had 
outwitted  his  brother  Armenians.  He  had  out 
generaled  them,  outbargained  them,  and — if  the  truth 
be  told — outcheated  them  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  because  he 
loved  her. 

And  now — ? 

"Mohammed  Yar!"  he  stammered.  "Remember 
the  oath  you  gave !" 

"I  do  remember,"  smiled  the  other,  with  a  flash  of 
even,  white  teeth,  "and  I  shall  keep  it.  Do  not  be 
afraid,  Zado.  And  now — a  cup  of  coffee,  a  few  figs, 
a  handful  of  dates.  Give  me  welcome!" 

Zado  gave  a  relieved  laugh.  The  color  came  back 
to  his  cheeks.  He  clapped  his  hands,  summoning  a 
clerk,  and  ordered  coffee  and  figs  and  pipes  to  be 
brought,  and  for  the  next  hour  he  sat  facing  his  guest, 
chattering  gayly. 


136  ALIEN  SOULS  ^ 

Finally  the  Kurd  rose. 

"I  shall  call  again  if  I  may,"  he  said. 

"Please  do."  Krelekian  accompanied  him  to  the 
door.  "Call  again.  I  shall  make  you  welcome. 
What  are  you  doing  in  New  York?  Where  are  you 
staying?  How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"I  came  with  an  Arab  doctor  whom  I  met  in 
Smyrna,"  replied  the  Kurd.  "We  live — oh,  a  ways 
north,  near  the  University.  He  is  taking  a  special 
course  in  the  medicine  of  the  Americans,  and  he 
teaches  me  in  payment  for  my  services.  Some  day 
I  shall  be  a  doctor  myself."  He  took  the  other's  hand, 
shook  it,  then,  just  as  he  was  about  to  release  it, 
raised  it  close  up  to  his  eyes  and  studied  it.  "Zado !" 
he  went  on,  giving  his  words  the  emphasis  of  a  low 
ered  voice.  "What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Why— nothing." 

Again  the  Kurd  studied  the  other's  pudgy,  flabby 
hand. 

"Well" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders — "perhaps  I  am 
mistaken.  Never  mind." 

And  he  walked  away,  while  the  Armenian  looked 
after  him,  smiling,  happy  once  more,  and  saying  to  his 
chief  clerk  that  indeed  America  was  a  great  and  won 
derful  country. 

"It  teaches  decency  and  kindliness  and  forgiving 
even  to  a  Kurd,"  he  wound  up,  and  he  went  upstairs 
to  kiss  the  red  lips  of  Aziza. 

She  yawned. 

Mohammed  Yar  had  not  lied  when  he  had  told  Zado 
Krelekian  about  his  relations  with  the  Arab  doctor. 
The  latter,  a  graduate  of  the  University  of  Paris,  had 
come  to  New  York  to  take  a  special  course  un4er  Pro- 


THE  JESTER  137 

fessor  Clinton  McGarra,  the  great  skin  specialist,  and 
had  picked  up  the  Kurd  in  Smyrna.  For  Mohammed 
Yar  had  left  his  native  village  shortly  after  Krelekian 
and  Aziza  had  departed  for  America,  drifting  on  the 
trail  of  the  Armenian  with  the  instinct  of  a  wild  ani 
mal,  serene  in  his  belief  that  presently  Fate  would  send 
him  across  the  other's  path. 

The  Arab,  being  an  Arab,  thus  an  ironic  observer 
of  living  things,  had  taken  an  interest  in  the  savage 
tribesman,  who  took  him  completely  into  his  con 
fidence,  telling  him  about  Zado — and  Aziza. 

"Come  with  me  to  America,"  El-Touati,  the  Arab, 
had  said.  "You  say  he  has  gone  there.  It  will  not 
be  hard  to  find  him.  Armenians  are  a  clannish  folk, 
herding  together  like  sheep." 

And  thus  Mohammed  Yar  became  cook,  bottle- 
washer,  valet,  and  half  a  dozen  other  useful  things 
to  the  smiling,  bearded  Arab,  receiving  in  exchange 
a  small  wage  and  certain  lessons  in  medicine — certain 
lessons  which,  when  first  mentioned,  had  sent  both 
the  Arab  and  the  Kurd  into  fits  of  high-pitched, 
throaty  laughter. 

El-Touati  laughed  now  as  Mohammed  Yar  came 
into  the  room,  returned  from  his  morning's  expedition 
to  West  Street. 

"Did  you  find  him?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  Haakim." 

"Did  you  bridle  your  tongue  and  your  temper?" 

"Yes.  I  spoke  honeyed  words,  sweet  words,  glib 
words." 

"And,"  pursued  the  Arab,  "did  you  speak  forked 
words,  twisted  words,  words  filled  with  guile  and 
worry?" 

"Yes.     I  planted  the  seed  of  worry,  Haakim." 


138  ALIEN  SOULS 

The  Arab  raised  his  thin,  brown  hands  in  a  pious 
gesture. 

"Is-subr  miftah  il-faraj!"  ("Patience  is  the  key  of 
relief!")  he  muttered.  And  then  Kurd  and  Arab 
smiled  at  each  other  through  half -closed  eyes,  and  the 
latter  turned  to  the  former  and  asked  him  to  come 
with  him  to  the  next  room,  his  little  private  laboratory. 
"I  shall  give  you  another  lesson,  my  savage  friend. 
Hand  me  down  that  leather  case  with  the  crystal- 
tipped  needles — and  the  little  box  filled  with  the  tiny 
green  vials.  Listen  .  .  ." 

And  the  Kurd  inclined  his  great  head,  listening  to 
the  other's  smooth,  rapid  words,  occasionally  asking 
a  question  when  his  primitive  mind  could  not  grasp 
the  technical  and  scientific  details,  but  sturdily  bent  on 
his  task,  until  El-Touati  declared  himself  satisfied. 

"There  is  no  danger?"  asked  Mohammed  Yar. 
"You  know,  Haakim,  I  gave  a  most  solemn  oath." 

"There  is  no  danger.  None  whatsoever.  Ex 
cept" — he  smiled — "to  Aziza.  For  she  may  change 
the  gentle  hand  of  Zado  for — " 

"I  shall  beat  her,"  said  Mohammed  Yar.  "Then 
I  shall  kiss  her  red  lips  until  they  hurt.  Then  I  shall 
beat  her  again.  She  will  love  me  very  much.  She  is 
a  gypsy.  .  .  ." 

"And  you — a  Kurd!"  laughed  El-Touati,  closing 
the  little  leather  case,  but  not  before  the  other  had 
dipped  a  furtive  hand  into  its  contents. 

The  next  day,  and  again  the  next,  and  every  day 
the  following  week,  Mohammed  Yar  called  on  Zado 
Krelekian.  Moslem,  thus  believing  in  the  sacredness 
and  proprieties  of  married  relations,  he  never  in 
quired  after  Aziza,  never  as  much  as  mentioned  her 


THE  JESTER  139 

name  to  her  husband,  and  it  was  not  his  fault  that  on 
his  fourth  visit  the  gypsy  was  looking  from  the  nar 
row  balcony  where  she  was  watering  her  starved,  dusty 
geraniums.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  suddenly  her 
eyes  opened  wide — and  that  one  of  the  flowers  fell  at 
his  feet. 

Gradually  the  Armenian  looked  forward  with  real 
pleasure  to  the  Kurd's  coming.  For  not  only  was 
it  a  link  with  his  little  native  Turkish  village,  but 
also  the  fact  of  his  being  on  such  good  terms  with  a 
Kurd,  a  hereditary  master,  served  to  heighten  his 
importance  and  social  standing  among  his  country 
men. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  which  he  took  ex 
ception,  namely  the  Kurd's  habit  of  inquiring  after 
his  health. 

It  was  not  the  usual,  flowery  Oriental  way,  but  a 
detailed  inquiry:  "How  did  you  sleep?  Did  you 
perspire  last  night  ?  Have  you  a  headache  ?  Does 
your  body  itch?  Have  you  fever?"  And  always 
Mohammed  Yar  would  study  his  hand  intently,  then 
release  it  with  a  flat,  sympathetic  sigh,  until  Krelekian 
one  day  lost  his  temper  and  made  an  ill-natured  re 
mark  that  the  Kurd's  association  with  the  Arab  doctor 
seemed  to  have  developed  in  him  a  positively  ghoulish 
instinct. 

"You  are  like  some  cursed,  toothless  Syrian  mid 
wife,"  he  exclaimed,  "forever  smelling  out  sickness 
and  death — sniffing  about  like  some  carrion-eating 
jackal  of  the  desert !" 

Mohammed  Yar  spread  his  hairy  paws  in  a  massive 
gesture. 

"I  am  sorry,  my  friend,"  he  replied.  "I  meant  only 
to —  Never  mind  .  .  ." 


140  ALIEN  SOULS 

Krelekian's  nerves  trembled  like  piano  wires  under 
the  hammer  of  the  keys. 

"Never  mind — what?"  he  cried  in  a  cracked  voice; 
and  the  Kurd,  like  one  making  a  sudden,  disagreeable 
resolution,  leaned  across  the  table  and  spoke  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I — "  he  began,  and  was  silent  again. 

"What?     What?" 

"I—    Ah!     Ullah  Karim!" 

Mohammed  Yar  was  evidently  embarrassed ;  just  as 
evidently  sorry  for  his  host,  terribly  sorry.  Then,  as 
if  obeying  an  overwhelming  inner  force,  he  picked  up 
Krelekian's  flabby  hand  where  it  rested  twitching  and 
nervous  among  the  brass-encased  coffee-cups,  held  it 
high,  and  examined  it  intently,  as  on  his  first  visit. 

"Zado!"  he  murmured,  in  a  low,  choked  voice. 
"Zado — dear,  dear  friend — " 

He  was  silent.  He  dropped  the  trembling  hand  as 
if  it  were  red-glowing  charcoal.  He  rose  very  hur 
riedly  and  rushed  through  the  shop,  out  to  the  side 
walk,  Krelekian  close  on  his  heels  and  clutching  his 
arm. 

"No,  no!"  whispered  Mohammed  Yar,  still  in  that 
same  choked  voice.  "Do  not  ask  me.  Perhaps  I  am 
mistaken — and  if  I  am  mistaken  and  should  tell  you, 
you  would  never  forgive  me !  Perhaps  I  am  mistaken. 
I  must  be  mistaken  .  .  .  yes,  yes  ...  I  know  I  am 
mistaken!" — and  he  ran  down  the  street,  never  heed 
ing  the  Armenian's  protests  to  come  back,  to  explain. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  coincidence  that  late  that  same 
evening  the  Kurd,  helping  the  Arab  doctor,  received  a 
special-delivery  letter  with  the  mark  of  a  West  Side 
downtown  post-office ;  a  letter  perfumed  with  attar  of 


JHE  JESTER  141 

geranium  and  saying  in  Arabic  that  "the  sword  of 
worry  and  despair  has  entered  the  buffalo's  soul." 

Perhaps  it  was  coincidence  that  during  the  next  four 
weeks,  while  spring  burst  into  the  full  flower  of  sum 
mer,  while  Washington  and  West  and  Rector  Streets 
began  to  shimmer  with  a  great,  brittle  heat  that  danced 
about  the  heaped  wares  of  the  Armenian  shops  with 
cutting  rays,  that  touched  the  ramshackle,  drab  houses 
and  the  dust-choked  gutters  with  points  of  glittering 
gold,  that  steeped  the  open  doors  of  the  stores  with 
black  splotches  like  bottomless  hollows  and  wove  over 
everything  a  crooked,  checkered  pattern  of  intolerable 
orange  and  crimson — that  during  four  long  weeks 
Mohammed  Yar  attended  strictly  to  his  duties  as  Doc 
tor  El-Touati's  factotum  and  never  once  found  time 
to  call  on  Zado  Krelekian. 

Perhaps  it  was  an  accident  that,  when  finally  he  did 
go  to  the  other's  house,  he  kept  himself  at  a  little, 
well-marked  distance  and,  with  clumsy  intent,  did  not 
see  Zado's  outstretched  hand. 

Lastly,  it  was  perhaps  by  accident  that  when,  after 
a  sharp  pause  and  struggle,  he  did  shake  the  other's 
hand,  that  same  hand  was  suddenly  withdrawn  with  a 
little  cry  of  pain. 

"Something  scratched  my  palm,"  said  Zado  Krele 
kian. 

Apologetically  the  Kurd  pointed  at  the  sharp  edge 
of  his  cuff. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  smiled,  at  the  same  time  rapidly 
dropping  into  his  side  pocket  a  little  crystal-tipped 
needle. 

That  day  it  was  not  the  Kurd  who  inquired  after 
the  Armenian's  health,  but  the  latter  who  spoke  of  it 
voluntarily,  hectically,  the  words  tumbling  out  of  his 


142  ALIEN  SOULS 

mouth  as  if  he  had  to  speak  them  or  choke,  as  if  try 
ing  to  roll  an  immense  burden  of  grief  and  worry 
from  his  stout  chest. 

"I  am  not  well,"  he  said.  "I  perspire  at  night. 
My  body  itches.  I  have  fever.  I  am  not  well — not 
well  at  all !" 

"Summer,"  gently  suggested  Mohammed  Yar. 
"The  fever  of  summer." 

"No,  no !  It  is  not  that.  I  tell  you  I  am  sick — and 
at  times  I  am  afraid.  Tell  me,  Mohammed  Yar,  you 
who  study  with  a  great  Arab  doctor — what  do  you 
think?" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  replied.  "The  last  time  I  saw 
you  I  was  afraid  that  you — "  He  looked  up  with  sud 
den  resolution.  "Here  is  my  address,"  he  continued, 
giving  Zado  a  slip  of  paper.  "If — I  say,  if — a  tiny 
white  rash  should  break  out  on  your  hand  to-night, 
perhaps  to-morrow  morning,  let  me  know  at  once. 
But  tell  nobody  else — under  no  considerations  whatso 
ever!"  he  emphasized  in  a  whisper. 
"Why  not?" 

"Because —  Never  mind.  You  will  know  in  time 
— if  the  rash  should  appear — though  Allah  grant  in  his 
mercy  and  understanding  that  it  may  not  appear! 
Allah  grant  it !"  he  repeated  with  pious  unction  as  he 
left  the  shop. 

But  late  that  night  there  was  less  unction  and  more 
sincerity  in  his  exclamation  of  "Allah  is  great  indeed ! 
He  is  the  One,  All-Knowing!"  when  he  opened  the 
telegram  he  had  just  received  and  read  its  contents  to 
El-Touati. 

"It  is  done,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  off." 
At  the  door  he  turned. 


THE  JESTER  143 

"Tell  me,  Haakim,"  he  asked,  "are  you  sure  there 
is  no  danger  ?  Remember  I  have  sworn  a  most  solemn 
oath  never  to  take  toll  with  steel  or  blood  or  pain  for 
what  happened  that  day,  back  home  in  Khinis,  between 
him  and  me!" 

"Rest  assured,"  laughed  the  Arab.  "Your  oath  is 
inviolate.  There  will  be  neither  blood  nor  pain — ex 
cept  perhaps  a  pain  of  the  mind,  which" — he  shrugged 
his  shoulders — "is  beyond  the  probing  of  human  ken, 
being  entirely  a  matter  of  Fate,  thus  sealed  to 
us." 

"There  will  also  be  pain  on  Aziza's  crimson  lips 
when  I  crush  them  with  the  strength  and  the  desire 
of  mine  own  lips!"  replied  the  Kurd  from  the  thresh- 
hold. 

It  was  hours  later,  in  the  little  back  room  of  Zado 
Krelekian's  shop,  that  Mohammed  Yar  put  his  hand 
gently  on  the  Armenian's  shoulder. 

"Heart  of  my  heart,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was 
as  soft  as  the  spring  breeze,  "it  is  the  decree  of  Fate — 
Fate,  which  comes  out  of  the  dark  like  a  blind  camel, 
with  no  warning,  no  jingling  of  bells;  Fate,  which  is 
about  the  necks  of  all  of  us,  be  we  Armenians  or 
Kurds,  Christians  or  Moslems,  like  a  strangling  lash. 
Long  life  may  yet  be  yours.  But — "  He  made  a 
sweeping  gesture. 

"Is  it — hopeless?" 

"Yes.  As  hopeless  as  when  Khizr  hides  his  shiny 
face." 

"But— what  can  I  do?    What—?" 

"Nothing !  I  spoke  to  my  Haakim,  El-Touati.  He 
'does  not  know  you  personally.  But  I  told  him  about 
you,  of  the  fact  that  you  and  I,  Armenian  and  Kurd, 


144  ALIEN  SOULS 

Christian  and  Moslem,  enemies  once,  became  friends 
in  this  strange  land  of  America.  And  he  says  even 
as  I  say :  you  must  shut  yourself  up  where  none  may 
see  you  except  I,  your  very  good  friend.  For  these 
Americans  fear — it!"  Again  his  hand  pressed  gently 
the  other's  heaving,  trembling  shoulder.  "If  you  go 
to  an  American  doctor,  if  you  tell  anybody,  they  will 
make  a  report  to  their  health  police  and  send  you  away 
to  a  desolate  spot,  far  away  from  the  land  of  the  liv 
ing,  from  everybody,  from  all  your  friends — even 
from  me,  heart  of  my  heart!  It  is  the  law  of  this 
land.  It  is  so  written  in  their  books.  But,  doing 
what  I  tell  you,  you  will  also  be  shut  up,  but  you  will 
be  near  your  shop — you  can  take  the  little  house  next 
door,  which  you  own — near  Aziza,  near — me!  And 
I  will  take  care  of  you.  I — I  am  your  friend,  and, 
being  your  friend,  I  am  not  afraid  of — it!  I,  I  my 
self,  will  bring  you  food  and  drink  and  tobacco  and 
books  and  papers.  But  nobody  must  know,  lest  the 
health  police  find  out  and  send  you  to  the  desolate 
spot!" 

"How  can  we  do  it?" 

"I  shall  spread  a  lie,  skillfully,  hoping  that  Allah 
may  forgive  me  the  lie  because  of  the  friendship  which 
causes  it.  I  will  tell  your  countrymen  that  a  great 
sorrow,  a  crushing  melancholia,  has  overtaken  you. 
I  shall  bring  a  paper  to  that  effect  from  the  Arab 
Haakim." 

"But,"  cried  Zado  Krelekian  hysterically,  "my  shop 
— my  business — my  wife?" 

"Zado" — there  was  gentle  reproof  in  the  Kurd's 
accents — "do  you  not  trust  me?  Have  I  not  been  a 
friend  to  you?  Has  ever  thought  of  revenge  entered 
my  heart?  Zado — heart  of  my  heart — I  shall  take 


THE  JESTER  145 

care  of  everything  for  you,  because  of  the  respect,  the 
friendship,  the  love,  I  bear  you !" 

And  he  walked  softly  out  of  the  shop  while  Zado 
Krelekian  looked  at  his  hand,  at  the  little  white  rash 
that  had  broken  out  where  the  crystal-tipped  needle 
had  pricked  the  skin. 

"Leper!"  he  whispered  under  his  breath.  "Leper! 
Oh,  my  God!" 

And  it  is  thus  that  Zado  Krelekian  is  cooped  up  in 
the  back  room  of  his  house,  with  windows  nailed  down 
and  curtains  tightly  closed  both  summer  and  winter, 
with  fear  stewing  forever  in  his  brain. 

It  is  thus  that  Mohammed  Yar,  once  a  ragged,  thin- 
mouthed,  hook-nosed  Kurd  tribesman,  dresses  to-day 
in  the  height  of  fashion  and  lords  it  gloriously  over 
Krelekian's  Armenian  clerks,  spending  Krelekian's 
money. 

It  is  thus  that,  when  the  mood  or  the  passion  takes 
him,  he  crushes  Aziza  in  his  great,  muscular  arms  and 
kisses  her  on  the  pouting,  crimson  lips. 

Always  he  smiles  when  he  kisses  her.  And  always 
he  gives  thanks  to  Allah.  Always  he  snaps  his  rin 
gers  derisively  in  the  direction  of  the  closed  shutters 
behind  which  Zado  Krelekian  shivers. 

Always  when,  as  a  good  Moslem,  he  says  his  morn 
ing  and  evening  prayers,  he  adds :. 

"I  am  glad,  O  Allah,  O  All-Knowing  One,  that  I 
kept  my  oath — that  I  did  not  take  toll  of  Zado  Kre 
lekian,  neither  with  steel  nor  bullet,  neither  with  whip 
nor  fist!" 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  LITTLE  THIN 
THREAD 

IBRAHIM  FADLALLAH  shrugged  his  shoulders : 

"You  do  not  understand,  my  frfend.  You  cannot 
get  it  through  your  head  that  it  is  impossible  to  de 
stroy  caste  and  to  create  fraternity  by  Act  of  Parlia 
ment.  Allah — you  can't  even  do  it  in  your  own 
country." 

"But  modern  progress — the  telegraph — the  democ 
racy  of  the  railway  carriage — "  interrupted  the 
American. 

"You  can  compel  a  Brahmin  to  sit  in  the  same  office 
and  to  ride  in  the  same  railway  compartment  with 
a  man  of  low  caste,  but  you  can  never  force  him  to 
eat  with  him  or  to  give  him  his  daughter  in  marriage. 
You  spoke  of  those  who  are  educated  abroad — and 
even  they,  my  friend,  when  they  return  to  Hind,  drift 
back  into  caste  and  the  ways  of  caste.  For  there  is  a 
little  thread — oh,  such  a  tiny,  thin  little  thread — which 
binds  them  to  their  own  land,  their  own  kin,  their  own 
caste.  And  it  seems  that  they  have  not  the  strength  to 
break  it — this  little  thread. 

"Ah,  yes!  Let  me  tell  you  something  which  oc 
curred  last  year — a  true  tale — and  please  do  not  for 
get  the  thread,  the  little  thread — 

"Now  the  whole  thing  was  like  a  play  in  one  of 
your  theaters — it  was  staged,  dear  one,  and  well  staged. 
[The  scene  was  the  great  hall  in  which  meets  the  caste 

146 


THE  LITTLE  THIN  THREAD 

tribunal  of  a  certain  Brahmin  clan.  Imagine,  if  you 
please,  a  huge  quadrangle,  impressively  bare  but  for  a 
low  dais  at  one  end,  covered  with  a  few  Bengali  shawls 
and  an  antelope  skin  or  two — ah ! — and  then  the  dra 
matic  atmosphere.  Not  the  atmosphere  of  death— oh, 
no ! — much  worse  than  death,  much  worse.  For  what 
is  death  compared  to  the  loss  of  caste?  And  that  af 
ternoon  they  were  going  to  try  a  man  who  had  pol 
luted  his  blood,  who  had  sinned  a  great  sin,  a  great  sin 
more  heinous  than  the  killing  of  cows — not  a  sin  ac 
cording  to  your  code  of  laws — but  then  they  were  men 
of  a  different  race,  and  their  sins  are  not  your  sins — 
eh? — and  mayhap  their  virtues  may  not  be  your 
virtues. 

"On  the  dais  sat  his  Holiness  Srimat  Muniswa- 
mappa  Rama-Swami,  and  on  either  side  of  him  stood 
anxious  disciples  who  looked  with  awe  at  his  thin, 
clean-shaven  lips  and  fanned  his  holy  old  poll  with 
silver-handled  yak  tails.  Near  him  sat  the  pleader  and 
a  few  Brahmin  grandees,  whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
consulting  in  cases  of  importance.  At  a  respectful 
distance  were  the  men  of  the  clan :  they  filed  in  slowly, 
prostrating  themselves  in  turn  before  the  Swami  and 
uttering  the  name  of  the  presiding  deity  with  trembling 
lips,  while  his  Holiness  smiled  a  contemplative  smile, 
and  while  his  fingers  counted  the  beads  on  his  rosary. 

"The  proceeding  opened  with  a  sermon  pronounced 
by  the  Swami.  First,  he  praised  Ganesa,  Sarasvati, 
and  half  a  dozen  other  assorted  deities,  and  then  with 
a  great  abundance  of  detail  and  many  long-winded 
quotations  he  set  forth  the  duties  of  the  twice-born. 
He  told  them  that  a  Brahmin  should  not  break  up 
clods  of  earth  nor  tear  up  the  grass  under  his  feet; 
that  he  should  not  look  at  the  setting  sun,  the  rising 


148  ALIEN  SOULS 

sun,  the  sun  in  eclipse,  the  image  of  the  sun  in  a  pool 
of  water;  that  he  should  not  point  at  the  stars  with 
fingers  of  irreverence;  that  he  should  not  sleep  with 
his  head  turned  toward  the  north  or  west;  that  he 
should  abstain  from  cutting  his  nails  with  his  teeth, 
from  using  the  same  toothstick  more  than  once,  from 
eating  off  plates  used  by  others,  and  from  wearing  san 
dals  worn  by  strangers — and  a  thousand  such  foolish 
injunctions. 

"The  assembly  was  politely  bored,  but  the  Swami 
enjoyed  himself  hugely.  For  it  gave  him  an  oppor 
tunity  to  show  his  great  learning  and  his  wonderful 
memory,  and  then,  like  most  holy  men,  he  loved  to 
lay  stress  on  the  outward  emblems  of  his  faith.  He 
illustrated  his  sermon  by  relating  several  horrid  ex 
amples,  chiefly  that  of  a  wicked  barber  who  had  shaved 
a  Brahmin  with  a  razor  which  had  been  polluted  by 
the  shadow  of  a  low-caste  falling  on  it.  Finally,  he 
commented  on  the  advent  of  modernity  and  expounded 
with  more  lengthy  and  tiresome  quotations  how  the 
devils  of  progress,  skepticism,  irreverence,  and  anarchy 
were  making  headway  amongst  the  twice-born,  how 
the  young  Brahmins  were  making  their  names  a  name 
of  scorn  in  the  present  world  and  spoiling  their  chances 
for  the  future  world. 

"Then  he  whispered  a  word  to  the  pleader,  who 
called  up  the  case  of  Chaganti  Samashiva  Rao,  a  young 
Brahmin  accused  of  having  sullied  his  caste  by  marry 
ing  an  infidel. 

"There  was  a  commotion  at  the  door,  and  then  Rao 
appeared,  struggling  furiously  in  the  arms  of  half  a 
dozen  muscular  youngsters.  The  pleader  explained 
that  Rao  had  studied  in  Boston  and  that  he  had  brought 
home  with  him  a  girl,  a  native  of  the  land  of  the 


THE  LITTLE  THIN  THREAD          149 

foreigners  and  a  Christian,  whom  he  had  married 
according  to  the  laws  of  the  Americans.  He  had  thus 
polluted  himself,  his  father,  his  mother,  his  cow,  and 
his  caste.  Here  the  pleader  was  silent  for  a  few 
moments  to  let  the  atrocity  of  the  crime  soak  into  all 
hearts,  and  then  he  asked  the  assembly  for  a  verdict. 
And  the  assembly  shouted  like  one  man :  'Let  him  lose 
caste.  Drive  him  out.  Drive  him  out.' 

"But  Rao  rose  and  declared  he  was  going  to  make  a 
speech.  He  said  he  would  tell  the  old  fossils,  includ 
ing  his  Holiness  Srimat  Muniswamappa  Rama-Swami, 
what  he  thought  of  them.  There  were  roars  of: 
Throw  him  out!'  'Stop  his  unclean  mouth!'  and 
angry  hands  were  raised.  But  his  Holiness  smiled  a 
thin,  mocking  smile  and  bade  the  assembly  be  quiet  and 
listen  to  what  the  defendant  would  have  to  say  for 
himself. 

"Rao  acknowledged  this  permission  with  a  sarcastic 
bow  of  gratitude,  pulled  out  his  cuffs — he  wore  Eng 
lish  clothes — and  proceeded  to  shock  the  grave  assem 
bly  greatly  by  declaring  that  he  did  not  give  a  'whoop 
in  Hades' — such  was  the  expression  he  used,  he  being 
a  perfect  English  scholar — for  all  the  Brahmins,  all 
the  Swamis,  and  all  the  caste  tribunals  in  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Hindustan.  He  had  been  brought  into 
court  by  force,  he  indignantly  complained,  and  he  ab 
solutely  denied  the  power  and  the  right  of  the  assembly 
to  punish  him.  For  he  had  lived  several  years  in 
America,  had  become  an  American  citizen,  and  had 
voluntarily  thrown  away  his  caste  as  he  would  a 
pair  of  worn-out  sandals. 

"His  Holiness  interrupted  him,  saying  that  he  would 
now  pass  sentence  on  him.  But  Rao  exclaimed :  'Sen 
tence—the  devil — you've  neither  the  right  nor  the 


150  ALIEN  SOULS 

might  to  sentence  me.'  The  Swami,  never  heeding  the 
interruption,  continued  with  a  calm  and  even  voice: 
'I  sentence  you  to  the  living  death  of  the  outcast  until 
such  time  as  you  expiate  your  crime,  acknowledge 
your  errors,  and  regain  your  caste  status,  which  you 
forfeit  to-day,  through  the  regular  methods  as  laid 
down  in  the  holy  books.  Your  friends  and  relatives 
will  assemble  on  the  first  unlucky  day  of  next  week, 
and  will  offer,  as  if  to  your  manes,  a  libation  in  a  pot 
of  water  which  a  slave  girl  shall  dash  against  the  walls 
of  your  house,  and  all  who  take  part  in  this  ceremony 
shall  be  regarded  as  impure  for  three  days.  Your 
friends  and  relatives  shall  not  be  permitted  to  accept 
your  hospitality,  nor  shall  you  be  allowed  to  share' 
theirs.  Your  touch  shall  be  pollution  unspeakable. 
Your  children  shall  be  outcasts  and  shall  not  marry 
anybody  but  Mangs  and  Mahars.  Your  own  father 
and  mother  shall  be  forbidden  your  house  under  the 
risk  of  losing  caste.  Neither  your  barber,  your  tailor, 
your  cook,  nor  your  washerwoman  shall  work  for 
you.  Nobody  shall  assist  you  in  any  way,  not  even 
at  the  funeral  of  a  member  of  your  household.  You 
shall  be  debarred  access  to  the  temples — ' 

"Here  Rao,  who  had  mocked  and  laughed  during 
all  this  sentence,  cried :  'Save  your  breath,  oh  holy 
one,  for  indeed  all  this  tommyrot  can  never  affect  me. 
As  to  hospitality,  I  don't  care  to  invite  those  old  fos 
sils  of  Brahmins  into  my  house,  nor  could  I  ever  bring 
myself  to  set  foot  in  theirs  and  listen  to  their  tire 
some  dissertations  about  the  Veda  and  the  Upanishads ; 
besides,  I've  plenty  of  European  friends.  As  to  my 
children  being  outcasts,  know,  revered  uncle,  that  ^  I 
have  none,  and  that  if  ever  I  should  have  any  they  will 
be  Americans  like  myself  and  marry  like  myself.  As 


[THE  LITTLE  JHIN  THREAD          151 

to  my  father  and  mother  being  forbidden  my  house — 
well,  they're  both  dead.  As  to  my  being  debarred 
access  to  your  temples — by  the  great  God  Shiva — I 
never  go  there  anyway — ' 

"His  Holiness  waited  until  Rao  had  finished,  and 
then  he  said,  with  the  same  inscrutable  smile  playing 
about  the  corners  of  his  thin  lips:  'I  furthermore 
sentence  you  to  have  torn  from  your  body  the  sacred 
thread  of  your  caste,  though' — here  he  smiled  again 
— 'I  hardly  believe  that  you,  who  have  voluntarily 
given  up  your  caste  and  who  mock  at  everything  con 
nected  with  it,  can  by  any  chance  still  have  the  thread 
about  your  person.' 

"Here  Rao  made  a  wild  dash  in  the  direction  of  the 
door,  but  he  was  stopped  by  many  willing  hands. 
There  was  a  short  and  furious  struggle,  his  clothes 
were  torn — and,  my  friend,  it  appeared  that  he,  the 
scoffer,  the  atheist,  the  expatriate,  who  had  renounced 
India,  who  had  thrown  much  filth  at  caste,  who  had 
become  an  American,  a  free-thinker,  and  a  scoffer  at 
superstitions — still  wore  next  his  heart  the  thin  thread, 
the  holy  thread  of  his  caste — the  holiest,  the  most  in 
timate,  the  most  exclusive,  the  most  secret,  the  most 
important  emblem  of  the  caste  which  he  affected  to 
despise — " 

Ibrahim  was  silent,  and  the  American  asked :  "Well 
— what  happened  ?" 

The  Egyptian  lit  a  cigarette  and  continued : 

"Oh,  the  usual  thing.  Rao  did  penance,  he  feasted 
the  priests,  he  went  through  the  regular  process  of 
ceremonious  purification — " 

"But  what  about  the  girl?" 

"His  wife?  Oh — he  sent  her  Back  to  her  own 
country — "  Ibrahim  gave  a  dry  little  laugh.  "Yes, 


152  ALIEN  SOULS 

my  friend,  you  assuredly  understand  India.  You  can 
reform  the  world  with  your  progress,  your  modern 
ity,  your  splendid  democracy — you  wonderful  Anglo- 
Saxons.  Only  it  appears  that  there  is  a  little  thread — 
Allah,  what  a  tiny  little  thread! — which  brings  to 
naught  all  your  wonderful  civilization,  your  liberty, 
your  democracy.  Ah,  such  a  tiny  little  thread,  my 
friend—" 


GRAFTER  AND  MASTER  GRAFTER 

IT  is  said  that,  compared  to  the  cunning  of  the  fakir, 
the  Holy  Man  of  Hindustan,  even  an  Armenian,  a 
trustee,  a  banker,  a  widow,  a  demon,  and  a  female 
cobra  during  the  Grishna  Season,  are  only  lisping, 
prattling  babes. 

Listen,  then,  to  the  tale  of  Harar  Lai,  the  babu,  the 
banker,  the  giver  of  many  nautch  parties,  the  sufferer 
from  that  envied  disease  of  the  idle  rich,  diabetes; 
and  of  Krishna  Chucker-jee,  the  fakir,  the  Holy  Man, 
the  ash-smeared  darling  of  the  many  gods. 

Harar  Lai,  the  babu,  was  the  big  man  of  the  village. 
His  earrings  were  of  jade.  His  face  was  shiny  with 
ghee.  His  wife  was  fat  and  very  beautiful;  none  of 
your  lean,  panther-like  women  she,  but  a  proper 
woman,  with  the  walk  of  the  king-goose  and  the  waist 
of  the  she-elephant.  A  most  proper  woman  indeed! 
Three  times  he  had  been  to  Bombay;  and  he  had 
brought  back  marvelous  devil-things;  clocks  which 
clucked  like  moor-birds,  boxes  which  had  songs  and 
voices  in  their  bowels,  resplendent  and  beautiful  orna 
ments  with  the  magic  legend  "Made  in  Birmingham." 

He  was  a  banker.  And  Fate  endowed  him  with 
such  a  miraculous  skill  in  the  making-out  of  accounts 
that  a  man  to  whom  he  had  loaned  fifty  rupees  might 
go  on  making  monthly  payments  of  twenty  rupees 
each  for  three  years  without  reducing  his  debt  by  a 
single  anna.  Great  are  the  virtues  of  Compound  In- 

153 


154  ALIEN  SOULS 

terest!  And,  indeed,  his  books  proved  beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  that  the  debt,  instead  of  being  re 
duced,  would  grow  with  each  successive  payment,  un 
til  in  the  end  of  a  few  years  the  original  loan  of  fifty 
rupees  had  become  half  a  lakh.  He  would  then  give 
thanks  to  Shiva,  the  great  god,  and  to  the  just  laws 
of  the  English. 

For  look  you: 

During  the  lawless  old  Moghul  days,  the  days  when 
the  Moslem  dogs  ruled  to  the  South  of  the  Passes,  a 
quick,  crooked  dagger-thrust  would  have  ended  the 
babu's  earthly  career.  But  the  British  Raj,  the  guard 
ian  angel  of  the  poor  and  the  pitiful,  had  established 
the  just  laws  of  Europe  in  this  land  of  oppression. 
Thus  Harar  Lai  carried  on  his  business  in  security, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  law,  even  as  they  do  in  Eng 
land  and  in  America. 

There  was  nothing  he  would  not  lend  money  on, 
from  a  nautch  girl's  blue  beads  to  an  unborn  calf, 
from  an  acre  of  indigo  plants  to  ten  yards  of  muslin 
turban  cloth;  provided  the  papers  were  drawn  up  in 
proper  form  and  witnessed  by  a  notary  public. 

And  so  in  good  years,  when  abundant  rain  watered 
the  smiling  fields,  when  the  crops  were  green  and 
bounteous,  the  fish  swarming  in  the  river,  and  the 
trees  heavy  with  fruit,  he  would  reap  a  goodish 
share  of  the  gifts  of  the  gods,  and — everything  being 
so  rich  and  plentiful — he  would  naturally  increase  the 
interest  on  loans  a  little,  just  a  little;  while  in  bad 
years,  when  black  famine  stalked  through  the  fields, 
when  the  sun  burnt  as  do  the  eternal  fires  in  the  seventh 
hall  of  perdition,  when  the  smoky  yellow  haze  rose 
from  the  ground  and  suffocated  the  parching  crops, 
when  the  fish  perished  of  thirst  in  the  drying  streams, 


.GRAFTER  AND  MASTER  GRAFTER    155 

when  the  land  was  dying  of  hunger,  and  the  call  to 
prayer  gave  way  to  the  maddening  chant  of  despair — 
when  his  heart,  his  poor,  tortured  heart — bled  with 
the  pity  of  it  all,  even  then  he  would  prosper  exceed 
ingly.  For  behold:  he  was  a  Hindu,  a  babu,  a  fol 
lower  of  the  praised  god  who  is  Shiva,  charitable  to 
a  fault  and  quite  unlike  the  Armenian  pigs  who  suck 
the  heart-blood  of  the  unhappy  land  to  the  west; 
again  he  would  loosen  the  strings  of  his  compassionate 
purse  and  advance  thousands  of  rupees  to  the  men 
of  the  village.  Never  would  he  accept  more  than  three 
hundred  and  twelve  per  cent  a  month,  and  he  would 
be  content,  as  only  security,  with  a  mortgage  on  every 
bullock  and  goat,  every  cartwheel  and  fishing-net, 
every  tree  and  well  in  the  blessed  village. 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  gratitude  when  he  be 
held  the  righteous  growth  of  his  treasures.  I  said 
that  he  prospered — and,  indeed,  there  was  never  cart 
wheel  tired,  there  was  never  net  anchored,  tree  planted 
or  grain  sown  but  he  received  his  fair  share  of  the 
profits. 

He  was  the  Corporation  of  the  Village. 

It  was  when  the  juice  was  being  collected  from  the 
heads  of  the  opium  poppies,  that  three  wandering 
fakirs,  a  guru  and  two  disciples,  strayed  into  the 
village.  They  were  very  dirty,  and  thus  very  holy. 
They  demanded  food,  drink,  shelter  and  cowdung  fuel 
from  a  wretched  peasant  who  lived  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  village.  Money?  No.  They  had  none.  They 
were  fakirs,  followers  of  the  many  gods,  very  holy, 
also  very  dirty.  They  had  no  money.  Not  a  single 
rupee. 

"But  do  not  let  that  worry  you,"  said  the  guru. 
"To-night  I  shall  pray  to  Shiva.  He  will  repay  you." 


156  ALIEN  SOULS 

So  the  poor  peasant  gave  rice  and  ghee  and  sweet 
meats  and  oil  and  onions  and  sugar  and  tamarinds  to 
the  three  holy  vampires  who  had  never  done  a  stroke 
of  honest  work  in  their  lives.  They  did  not  have  to. 
For  they  were  of  a  most  thorough  and  most  astound 
ing  dirtiness  and  ditto  holiness.  They  lived  thus  on 
the  superstitions  of  the  land  of  Hind;  and  they  lived 
exceedingly  well.  They  also  gave  thanks  to  Shiva,  the 
great  god  and  to  the  just  laws  of  the  English. 

For  look  you: 

During  the  lawless  old  Moghul  days,  the  days  when 
the  Moslem  dogs  ruled  to  the  South  of  the  Passes,  a 
sharp  sword  would  have  quickly  removed  the  heads 
of  the  three  fakirs.  But  then  the  British  Raj  has  estab 
lished  the  just  laws  of  Europe  in  this  land  of  op 
pression;  the  laws  which  preach  tolerance  and  equal 
rights  for  all  religions  and  sects.  And  so  these  re 
ligious  parasites  had  gripped  their  fangs  in  the  bowels 
of  the  land's  prosperity,  even  as  in  England  and  in 
America. 

The  holy  men  asked  the  news  of  the  village,  care 
fully  scanning  the  scraps  of  bazaar  talk;  and  they 
learned  about  Harar  Lai,  the  babu,  and  they  evinced 
great  interest. 

The  next  morning  the  three  were  gone.  But  they 
had  left  ample  payment  for  their  entertainment.  For 
in  the  shade  of  a  great  babul  tree  stood  a  brand-new 
idol,  a  Mahadeo  which  was  so  exceedingly  ugly  and 
bestial  and  obscene  that  it  was  certain  to  bring  prosper 
ity  to  the  village,  especially  to  the  peasant  who  had 
been  the  host  of  the  three  so  dirty,  the  three  so  holy 
men. 

Soon  its  fame  spread.  Little  chaplets  of  flowers 
were  offered  to  the  holy  emblem  of  creation,  and  thin- 


GRAFTER  AND  MASTER  GRAFTER  157 

lipped,  weary-eyed  men  and  patient,  onyx-eyed  women 
sent  up  many  pathetic  prayers  to  the  grinning,  staring, 
sensual  idol.  And  the  idol  prospered.  It  shone  with 
plentiful  libations  of  ghee,  and  was  more  ugly  and 
more  holy  than  ever.  The  very  babul  tree  did  homage 
to  it.  For  a  gorgeous  loofah  creeper  which  for  many 
hot  and  many  cold  weathers  had  used  the  tree  for 
support  and  nourishment  sent  down  strong  shoots  and 
encircled  with  its  sweet-smelling,  lascivious  flowers  the 
neck  and  the  arms  of  the  Mahadeo. 

The  babu  saw  it.  He  considered  it.  He  was  angry. 
For  here  was  something  in  the  village  which  could 
not  be  assisted  with  a  mortgage  at  a  reasonable  rate 
of  interest.  Mahadeos  are  gods.  Gods  do  not  need 
money;  only  the  fakirs,  the  Holy  Men  who  serve  the 
gods,  need  money. 

Let  it  be  understood  that  Harar  Lai  had  no  inten 
tion  of  fooling  with  the  Mahadeo.  He  was  a  Hindu. 
He  was  deeply  religious.  He  would  sooner  have  killed 
his  fat  and  beautiful  wife  than  kill  a  cow. 

Then,  one  day,  the  babu  discovered  how  he  could 
make  the  god  pay  without  defiling  his  caste,  without 
committing  an  irreligious  act.  On  the  contrary,  he 
would  do  great  honor  to  the  Mahadeo.  All  he  had 
to  do,  he  thought,  was  to  buy  the  plot  of  land  which 
housed  the  idol.  Of  course  the  peasant  would  not  des 
ecrate  the  god  by  removing  it  from  the  shade  of  the 
babul  tree  which  he  had  chosen  for  his  abode.  So  he 
would  buy  a  plot  of  land  and  would  then  acquire  a 
reputation  for  sanctity  by  erecting  a  temple  over  it. 
He  would  spread  the  tale  of  the  Mahadeo  through  the 
countryside.  He  would  advertise  in  the  Bande  Mahr- 
attam  and  other  native  papers;  perhaps  even  in  the 
English  press,  the  Bombay  Times,  the  Englishman, 


158  ALIEN  SOULS 

the  Pioneer.  There  would  be  many  offerings  laid  at 
the  feet  of  the  god.  He  would  be  the  owner  of  the 
temple.  He  had  a  brother-in-law  who  was  a  Brahmin 
priest.  Together  they  would  collect  the  offerings.  The 
plan  was  simple. 

But  the  owner  of  the  land  absolutely  refused  to  part 
with  it.  Neither  cajolings  nor  threats  were  of  the 
slightest  avail. 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  the  superstitious  ryot.  "No, 
by  Karma!  I  will  not  part  with  what  the  gods  have 
sent  me.  The  Mahadeo  has  brought  luck  to  my 
house.  Three  weeks  ago  my  wife  gave  birth  to  twin 
sons.  And  though  she  drank  buttermilk,  she  did  not 
die.  Behold  what  a  powerful  Mahadeo  he  is!  Also 
be  pleased  to  observe  his  face.  How  ugly,  how  bestial, 
how  obscene!  No,  there  was  never  Mahadeo  like 
mine." 

About  this  time  one  of  the  three  fakirs,  Krishna 
Chucker-jee  by  name,  came  again  to  the  village.  He 
was  dirtier  and  holier  than  ever.  Again  he  visited  the 
house  of  the  peasant.  Again  he  asked  for  food  and 
drink  and  cowdung  fuel.  Gladly  the  peasant  gave. 
He  kissed  the  Holy  Man's  feet. 

Then  he  told  him  about  the  babu's  offer. 

"Five  times  Harar  Lai  has  asked  me  to  sell  him  the 
plot  of  land  which  houses  the  Mahadeo.  Five  times 
I  have  refused.  And  each  time  the  babu  forecloses 
on  some  of  my  land.  What  shall  I  do,  O  Holy  Man  ?" 

The  fakir  blessed  the  peasant.  He  praised  him  for 
his  devotion.  He  told  him  that  in  a  month  he  would 
receive  the  answer  to  his  question.  But  in  the  mean 
time  he  was  not  to  breathe  a  word  to  anybody  about 
his,  the  fakir's,  second  visit.  Also  he  needn't  worry 


GRAFTER  AND  MASTER  GRAFTER  159 

about  the  mortgages.  Everything  would  be  straight 
ened  out. 

"See,  my  friend,"  he  concluded.  "For  fifteen  years 
neither  water  nor  soap  nor  scissors  have  defiled  my 
body.  Daily  I  grow  and  gain  in  holiness  and  filth. 
Tell  me,  have  you  ever  seen  so  much  holiness,  so  much 
filth,  before?" 

"No,  beloved  one  of  the  gods,"  stammered  the 
peasant. 

"Then  trust  in  me.  Everything  will  be  straight 
ened  out.  Even  to-night  I  shall  cover  my  body  with 
ashes  and  cowdung.  Have  faith  .  .  .  and  the  gods 
will  be  good  to  you.  Praised  be  the  many  gods!" 

The  fakir  left,  again  swearing  the  peasant  to 
secrecy. 

Three  days  afterwards  the  babu  was  on  the  furthest 
confines  of  the  village,  surveying  with  grim  interest 
the  crops  on  which  he  held  mortgages,  when  five  fakirs 
appeared  suddenly  before  him. 

They  were  naked.  Their  beards  and  hair  were 
matted.  Their  lean  bodies  were  covered  with  dirt  and 
perspiration.  Their  finger  nails  had  grown  into  long, 
twisted,  fantastic  curves  and  knots.  Even  at  two 
miles,  with  a  fair  wind,  your  nose  would  have  con 
vinced  you  of  their  exceeding  holiness. 

So  the  babu  bowed  before  them. 

"Salaam,  O  babu-jee,"  exclaimed  the  oldest  and 
dirtiest  of  the  five.  "I  have  a  message  for  thee." 

"Salaam,  O  Harar  Lai,"  rejoined  the  other  four 
in  the  heavy,  impressive  manner  of  a  Greek  tragedy 
chorus.  "We  have  a  message  for  thee." 

The  babu  was  surprised  that  they  knew  his  name, 
and  he  asked  them  how  they  knew  it. 


i6p  ALIEN  SOULS 

And  Krishna  Chucker-jee,  the  guru,  the  oldest  of 
the  five,  answered : 

"We  know  many  things,  O  babu-jee.  We  are  Holy 
Men,  beloved  of  the  gods.  Behold  our  filth!  We 
know  that  at  the  age  of  fifteen  thou  didst  leave  thy 
home  in  Shahjahanabad,  and  that  thou  hadst  only  five 
rupees  in  thy  waistband.  We  know  that  the  gods 
smiled  on  thee,  and  that  thou  didst  prosper  exceed 
ingly.  All  is  known  concerning  thee.  And  now  the 
gods  have  ordered  us  five  to  travel  many  miles  be 
cause  they  wish  to  build  a  temple  in  thy  village  to  the 
Mahadeo.  Thus  the  gods  send  thee  message  through 
us." 

"Be  pleased  to  deliver  it,"  said  the  babu,  amazed  at 
their  intimate  knowledge  of  his  affairs. 

But  Krishna  Chucker-jee  replied  in  a  dignified  and 
haughty  manner : 

"Patience,  O  babu-jee.  Patience!  For  remember 
that  patience  is  the  key  of  relief,  and  that  nothing 
comes  to  an  end  except  the  beard  of  the  beardless. 
Patience,  then !" 

He  squatted  on  the  ground.  He  rolled  up  his  eyes 
in  a  thoroughly  disgusting  and  very  bewildering  man 
ner.  His  disciples  crowded  around  him. 

"Hush!"  they  admonished  the  banker.  "Hush,  O 
babu-jee !  The  guru  is  now  communing  with  the  deity, 
with  Shiva."  And  they  gave  a  well-trained  shudder, 
in  which  the  babu  joined  involuntarily. 

Suddenly  the  guru  gave  a  great  sigh.  He  jumped 
up.  His  eyes  assumed  once  more  their  normal,  beady 
focus.  He  scratched  his  long,  matted  hair  with  his 
claw-like  hands.-  Then  he  addressed  the  babu  in  gentle 
tones. 

"Shiva  has  whispered  to  me.    At  the  appointed  hour 


GRAFTER  AND  MASTER  GRAFTER  161 

everything  shall  be  made  most  clear.  But  first  it  is 
necessary  that  thou,  O  babu-jee,  shouldst  give  us  food 
for  twelve  days.  At  the  end  of  the  twelve  days  my 
four  chelas  shall  go  away.  Eight  days  more  I  shall 
abide  with  thee,  and  then  the  message  shall  be  given 
to  thee.  For  the  gods  are  pleased  with  thee,  and  they 
have  heard  of  thy  pious  desires  in  the  matter  of  the 
Mahadeo." 

Here  he  winked  furiously  at  the  peasant  who  hap 
pened  to  pass  by  and  who  was  watching  the  scene 
with  open  mouth  and  staring  eyes. 

The  jubilant  babu  did  as  he  was  bidden.  For  ta 
his  Eastern  mind  there  was  nothing  incredible  in  such 
an  occurrence. 

For  twelve  days  the  guru  and  his  four  chelas  were 
the  guests  of  the  babu.  Then  they  departed.  Only 
Krishna  Chucker-jee  remained  in  the  house  of  the 
banker. 

The  guru  had  an  earnest  talk  with  his  host.  He 
told  him  that  during  the  eight  days  which  intervened 
between  that  day  and  the  delivery  of  the  message  he 
must  prepare  himself  and  purify  his  mind  and  soul  by 
deeds  of  charity,  ceremonious  visits  to  the  Mahadeo, 
and  complicated  devotional  exercises. 

He  could  rest  assured  that  every  rupee  given  away 
in  charity  would  be  returned  a  hundredfold  to  him. 

"Wherefore  hold  not  thy  hand,"  said  the  ascetic  at 
the  end  of  his  pious  exhortation. 

Strictly  the  babu  obeyed  the  instructions  of  the 
Holy  One.  He  tore  up  mortgages  and  he  distributed 
food  and  coins  to  the  gaping  villagers. 

Eight  long  days  passed.  On  the  morning  of  the 
ninth  day,  Krishna  Chucker-jee  ordered  the  babu  to- 
fetch  a  new  earthenware  jar,  two  cubits  of  khassa 


1 62  ALIEN  SOULS 

cloth  and  a  seer  of  attah  flour.  And  now  he  would 
see  how  everything  that  he  had  given  away  in  charity 
would  be  restored  by  the  gods  a  hundredfold. 

As  a  token  he  told  him  to  bring  a  rupee,  and,  tak 
ing  it  from  the  babu,  he  asked  him  to  prostrate  him 
self  on  the  ground  and  to  say  certain  lengthy  passages 
from  the  Kata  Upanishad,  while  he  himself  wrapped 
the  rupee  in  the  cloth,  placed  it  in  the  pot,  emptied 
the  attah  flour  a-top,  and  then  closed  the  mouth  of  the 
jar  with  a  piece  of  khassa  cloth  which  was  sealed  with 
the  babu's  own  signet-ring.  Then  he  told  the  babu 
to  hide  the  jar  somewhere  in  the  open  country. 

The  next  day  the  jar  was  brought  back.  Nobody 
had  tampered  with  it.  The  seal  was  intact.  But, 
miraculous  to  relate,  when  the  cloth  was  removed  and 
ihe  jar  opened,  there  were  two  rupees  wrapped  in  the 
cloth  instead  of  one. 

Three  times  the  ceremony  was  repeated,  with  the 
same  prostrations  and  prayers  on  the  babu's  part, 
while  the  guru  sealed  the  jar.  And  finally  the  rupee 
had  grown  to  be  eight. 

"Thou  aft  beloved  by  the  gods,"  said  Krishna 
Chucker-jee.  "Thy  deeds  of  charity  smell  sweet  in 
their  holy  nostrils.  Again  I  admonish  thee :  hold  not 
thy  hand!" 

And  the  babu  did  as  he  was  bid.  He  held  not  his 
hand.  He  tore  up  all  the  other  mortgages  he  had  and 
returned  many  acres  of  land  to  the  original  owners, 
the  peasants  of  the  village. 

"The  period  of  probation  has  passed,"  said  the 
guru. 

Followed  a  day  of  prayer  and  fasting,  and  on  the 
next  morning  the  babu  was  told  by  Krishna  Chucker- 
jee  to  bring  an  extra  large  jar  and  to  fetch  all  his 


GRAFTER  AND  MASTER  GRAFTER  163 

currency  notes,  all  his  gold  and  silver  coins,  his  own 
jewels  and  those  of  his  beautiful,  fat  wife. 

"Fill  the  jar  with  them,"  said  the  guru.  "But  leave 
sufficient  room  on  top  so  that  the  gods  can  double 
them." 

The  babu  did  as  he  was  told.  He  was  jubilant. 
Then  Chucker-jee  asked  him  to  prostrate  himself  and 
to  recite  an  especially  long  passage  from  the  Kata 
Upanishad.  Meanwhile  he  himself  closed  and  sealed 
the  jar. 

Devotional  exercises  orer,  he  directed  Harar  Lai  to 
carry  away  the  jar  to  a  spot  twenty  times  as  far  as 
the  one  which  had  contained  the  jar  with  the  one 
rupee,  and  to  guard  it  until  the  following  dawn. 

"Cease  not  to  pray  for  a  single  minute,"  continued 
the  Holy  Man.  "Let  none  approach  thee  or  speak  to 
thee.  Do  not  fall  asleep.  Fast  until  thou  comest  here 
again.  Obey  strictly,  so  as  not  to  kindle  divine  anger." 

The  babu  obeyed.  He  took  the  jar  and  carried  it 
a  long  distance  into  the  country.  He  watched  it.  He 
allowed  nobody  to  approach.  He  prayed  incessantly. 
But,  finally,  worn  out  with  his  fastings  and  his 
prayers,  he  fell  asleep. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  and  the  shadows 
pointing  northward  when  he  awoke.  Terror  gripped 
his  heart  when  he  thought  that  he  might  have  angered 
the  Mahadeo  by  failing  in  his  vigil.  He  seized  the 
jar  in  alarm.  He  examined  it  carefully.  But  the 
seals  were  intact.  Nobody  had  tampered  with  his 
treasures.  So  he  felt  relieved.  Again  he  watched 
and  prayed. 

Finally  he  could  not  stand  the  suspense  any  longer. 
He  picked  up  the  jar  and  returned  to  the  house. 

The  fakir  was  not  there.   He  searched  through  house 


164  ALIEN  SOULS 

and  garden.    But  there  was  no  sign  of  the  Holy  Man. 

He  called  loudly: 

"Guru-jee  ...     O  guru-jee!" 

But  no  answer  came.  Then  he  inquired  of  the 
villagers,  but  none  had  seen  the  Holy  One. 

Then  he  thought  that  perhaps  the  guru  had  set  out 
in  search  of  him  and  would  return  sooner  or  later. 
And  he  waited  a  long  time  till  finally  anxiety  and 
hunger  got  the  better  of  his  fear.  He  ate,  and  then 
he  opened  the  jar  with  the  proper  ceremonies  .  .  . 

But  the  gods  had  not  doubled  his  riches.  In  fact, 
they  had  removed  them  altogether  and  had  put  in  their 
place  three  large  and  heavy  bricks. 

The  babu  sat  down  and  wept.  That  was  the  end  of 
all  things.  To  call  in  the  police  to  aid  him  against 
the  gods  would  be  a  futility.  He  visited  the  babul 
tree  and  looked  at  the  Mahadeo.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  Mahadeo  was  solemnly  winking  at  him. 

And  a  great  fury  seized  him  by  the  throat.  He 
cursed  the  deities  of  his  native  land. 

And  six  months  later  the  Christian  Messenger 
printed  the  glorious  news  that  another  pagan,  this 
time  a  high-class  Brahmin,  a  charitable  native  Indian 
banker,  after  giving  away  all  his  wealth  in  charities 
to  the  village  where  he  lived,  and  tearing  up  all  the 
mortgages  he  owned,  had  been  converted  to  the  True 
Faith;  and  had  even  risked  his  life  and  been  severely 
beaten  because  in  his  righteous  new  zeal  he  had  en 
deavored  to  break  a  horrid  and  grinning  Mahadeo 
idol  which  stood  in  the  shade  of  a  great  babul  tree 
at  the  confines  of  the  village. 


THE  LOGICAL  TALE  OF  THE  FOUR 
CAMELS 

IN  Sidi-el-Abas  it  was  spring,  white  spring,  and  the 
pale  peace  of  perfumed  dawn. 

We  were  smoking  and  dreaming,  too  indolent  to 
speak,  each  waiting  for  his  neighbor  to  open  the 
trickling  stream  of  soft,  lazy  conversation.  At  last, 
Ibrahim  Fadlallah,  the  Egyptian,  turned  to  the  young 
Englishman  and  said: 

"Soon,  oh  my  dear,  you  will  return  to  your  own 
country,  so  listen  to  the  moral  tale  I  am  about  to 
tell,  so  that  you  can  take  back  to  your  own  people 
one  lesson,  one  small  lesson  which  will  teach  you 
how  to  use  the  manly  virtues  of  honor,  self-restraint, 
and  piety — all  accomplishments  in  which  you  unbe 
lievers  are  sadly  deficient.  Give  me  a  cigarette,  oh 
my  beloved.  Ah,  thanks;  and  now  listen  to  what 
happened  in  Ouadi-Halfa  between  Ayesha  Zemzem, 
the  Sheik  Seif  Ed-din,  and  Hasaballah  Abdelkader,  a 
young  Bedouin  gentleman,  who  is  very  close  to  my 
heart. 

"The  Sheik  was  a  most  venerable  man,  deeply 
versed  in  the  winding  paths  of  sectarian  theology — 
he  had  even  studied  the  Sunna — and  of  a  transcend 
ent  wisdom  which  his  disciples  declared  to  be  greater 
than  that  of  all  the  other  Sheiks. 

"But  even  in  your  own  country  it  may  be  that 

165 


166  ALIEN  SOULS 

sanctity  of  the  mind  and  grace  of  the  dust  created 
body  do  not  always  match.  Indeed,  the  Sheik's  beard 
was  scanty  and  of  a  mottled  color;  he  was  not  over- 
clean,  especially  when  you  consider  that  as  a  most 
holy  man  he  was  supposed  to  be  most  rigorous  in  his 
daily  ablutions.  He  had  grown  fat  and  bulky  with 
years  of  good  living;  for  tell  me,  should  not  a  holy 
man  live  well  so  that  he  may  reach  a  ripe  old  age, 
and  that  many  growing  generations  of  disciples  may 
drink  the  clear  drops  of  honeyed  piety  which  fall  from 
his  lips? 

"Besides,  to  compensate  for  the  many  piastres  he 
spent  on  himself,  he  tightened  the  strings  of  his  purse 
when  it  came  to  paying  for  the  wants  of  his  large 
household.  He  said  it  was  his  duty  to  train  his  sons 
and  the  mothers  of  his  sons  in  the  shining  virtue  of 
abstemiousness,  asking  them  to  repeat  daily  the  words 
in  the  book  of  the  Koran :  'Over-indulgence  is  a  most 
vile  abomination  in  the  ^yes  of  Allah.' 

"His  first  two  wives  had  grown  gray,  and,  his  old 
heart  yearning  for  the  untaught  shyness  of  youth,  he 
had  taken  as  the  third,  Ayesha  Zemzem,  the  daughter 
of  the  morning.  My  dear,  do  not  ask  me  to  describe 
her  many  charms.  My  chaste  vocabulary  could  never 
do  her  justice.  Besides,  do  you  not  know  that 
our  women  go  decently  veiled  before  strangers? 
Thus  who  am  I  to  know  what  I  am  not  allowed  to 
see? 

"Suffice  it  to  say  that  she  was  a  precious  casket  filled 
with  the  arts  of  coquetry,  that  she  was  tall  and  slender 
as  the  free  cypress,  that  her  forehead  was  as  the 
moon  on  the  seventh  day  and  her  black  eyes  taverns 
of  sweetest  wine.  But  the  heart  of  woman  acknowl 
edges  no  law,  respects  no  master  except  the  one  she 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  FOUR  CAMELS     167 

appoints  herself,  and  so  it  was  that  Ayesha  had  no  love 
for  the  Sheik  in  spite  of  his  white  sanctity,  and  though 
he  knew  the  Koran  and  all  the  commentaries  by  heart. 

"And  then  one  day  she  saw  Hasaballah,  and  her 
veil  dropping  by  chance,  he  saw  her. 

"Hasaballah  had  but  lately  returned  from  that 
famed  asylum  of  learning  and  splendor,  that  abode  of 
the  Commander  of  the  Faithful,  the  noble  town  of 
Stamboul.  He  had  come  back  dressed  in  robes  of 
state,  and  when  he  donned  his  peach-colored  coat  em 
broidered  with  cunning  Persian  designs  in  silver  and 
gold,  the  men  in  the  bazaar  looked  up  from  their  work 
and  exclaimed :  'Look  at  him  who  with  his  splendor 
shames  the  light  of  the  mid-day  sun/ 

"He  was  indeed  a  true  Osmanli  for  all  his  Bedouin 
blood,  and  the  soft  fall  of  his  large  Turkish  trousers, 
which  met  at  the  ankle,  the  majestic  lines  of  his  silken 
burnous,  the  bold  cut  of  his  famed  peach-colored  coat, 
were  the  despair  of  all  the  leading  tailors  in  Ouadi- 
Halfa  and  the  envy  of  all  the  young  bloods.  His 
speech  was  a  string  of  pearls  on  a  thread  of  gold.  He 
walked  lithely,  with  a  jaunty  step,  swaying  from  side 
to  side.  He  was  like  a  fresh-sprung  hyacinth  and  the 
master  of  many  hearts. 

"I  said  that  Ayesha  saw  him  and  her  veil  was  low 
ered;  and  you,  oh  my  dear,  you  know  the  heart  of 
man,  and  you  also  know  what  many  women  shall  al 
ways  desire.  You  will  not  be  shocked  when  I  tell  you 
that  on  the  very  same  night  you  could  have  seen 
Hasaballah  leaning  against  the  wall  in  the  shadow  of 
the  screened  balcony  which  protruded  from  the  Sheik's 
harem ;  and  there  he  warbled  certain  appropriate  lines 
which  I  had  taught  him.  Indeed,  I  had  used  them 
myself  with  great  effect  on  a  former  occasion. 


168  ALIEN  SOULS 

"  'I  am  a  beggar  and  I  love  a  Queen. 

Tis  thee,  beloved,  upon  whose  braided  locks 

The  fez  lies  as  a  rose-leaf  on  the  brook; 

'Tis  thee  whose  breath  is  sweetest  ambergris, 

Whose  orbs  are  dewdrops  which  the  lilies  wear.' 

"Claptrap!  Oh,  I  don't  know.  You  should  have 
heard  Hasaballah's  own  effort.  He  was  going  to  ad 
dress  her  as  'blood  of  my  soul/  but  I  thought  it  alto 
gether  too  extravagant.  The  time  to  woo  a  woman  is 
when  you  first  see  her,  and  the  way  to  woo  her  is  the 
old-fashioned  way.  Flatteries  never  grow  old,  and  I 
always  use  the  time-honored  similes. 

"I  tell  her  that  she  is  as  beautiful  as  the  pale  moon, 
that  her  walk  is  the  walk  of  the  king-goose,  that  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  touch  her  pink  ears,  that  she  has 
the  waist  of  a  lion,  and  that  her  voice  is  sweeter  than 
the  song  of  the  Kokila-bird. 

"But  permit  me  to  continue  my  tale. 

"Two  hours  later  Hasaballah  and  Ayesha  knocked 
at  my  gate,  and,  touching  my  knee,  asked  me  for  hos 
pitality  and  protection,  which  I  granted  them,  having 
always  been  known  as  the  friend  of  the  oppressed  and 
the  persecuted.  And  early  the  following  morning  the 
Sheik  came  to  my  house,  and  I  received  him  with  open 
arms  as  the  honored  guest  of  my  divan. 

"After  partaking  of  coffee  and  pipe  he  said : 

"  'Ibrahim,  last  night  when  I  went  to  the  women's 
quarter  to  join  my  female  household  in  their  midnight 
prayer,  the  weeping  slaves  told  me  that  Ayesha  had 
run  away.  Great  was  my  grief  and  fervent  my 
prayers,  and  when  sleep  at  last  closed  my  swollen 
eyelids  I  saw  in  my  dreams  the  angels  Gabriel  and 
Michael  descend  from  heaven.  They  took  me  on  their 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  FOUR  CAMELS     169 

shining  wings  into  the  seventh  hall  of  Paradise,  and 
there  I  saw  the  Messenger  Mohammed  (on  whom  be 
praises)  sitting  on  a  throne  of  pearls  and  emeralds, 
and  judging  men  and  jinn. 

"  'And  the  Prophet  (peace  on  him)  said  to  me :  "Go 
thott  in  the  morning  to  the  house  of  my  beloved  and 
obedient  servant  Ibrahim  Fadlallah,  where  thou  shalt 
find  Ayesha,  and  with  her  a  certain  good-for-nought 
young  scoundrel,  whom  thou  shouldst  carry  before  the 
Kadi  and  have  punished  with  many  lashes."  Thus,  O 
Ibrahim,  obeying  the  commands  of  the  blessed  Prophet 
(on  whom  peace),  I  ask  you  to  give  up  to  me  Ayesha 
and  Hasaballah,  that  I  may  kill  the  woman  and  have 
the  man  much  beaten,  according  to  the  wise  and  merci 
ful  law  of  the  Koran/ 

"And  I  replied :  'O  most  pious  Sheik,  your  tale  is 
strange  indeed,  though  amply  corroborated  by  what  I 
am  about  to  relate.  For  last  night,  after  the  fugitives 
had  asked  me  for  protection,  I  also  prayed  fervently 
to  Allah  (indeed  He  has  no  equal),  and  in  my  dreams 
the  angels  Gabriel  and  Michael  carried  me  on  wide 
spread  wings  into  the  seventh  hall  of  Paradise,  even 
into  the  presence  of  the  Messenger  Mohammed  (on 
whom  be  benedictions). 

"And  the  Prophet  (deep  peace  on  him)  turned  to 
me  and  said : 

"  'Ibrahim,  the  pious  and  learned  Sheik  Seif  Ed-din 
has  just  left  the  abode  of  the  righteous  to  return  to 
his  earthly  home.  I  gave  him  certain  orders,  but 
after  he  left  I  reconsidered  my  decision.  When  he 
visits  you  in  the  morning,  tell  him  it  is  my  wish  that 
he  should  leave  Hasaballah  undisturbed  in  the  posses 
sion  of  the  woman  he  has  stolen,  and  should  accept 
two  camels  in  payment  of  her.' 


i/o  ALIEN  SOULS 

"The  Sheik  pondered  awhile,  and  replied: 
"  'Verily  it  says  in  the  most  holy  book  of  the  Koran 
that  Allah  loveth  those  who  observe  justice,  and  that 
the  wicked  who  turn  their  backs  on  the  decisions  of 
the  Prophet  (on  whom  peace)  are  infidels  who  shall 
hereafter  be  boiled  in  large  cauldrons  of  very  hot  oil. 
Now  tell  me,  Ibrahim,  are  you  sure  that  last  night  the 
Prophet  (peace  on  him)  did  not  say  that  I  should 
accept  four  camels,  and  not  two,  in  payment  of  the 
bitter  loss  inflicted  on  my  honor  and  dignity?  In 
deed,  for  four  camels  Hasaballah  may  keep  the  woman, 
provided  the  animals  be  swift-footed  and  of  a  fair 
pedigree.  Upon  those  two  points  I  must  insist.' 

"Then,  oh  my  eyes!  I  thought  that  bargaining  is 
the  habit  of  Jews  and  Armenians,  and  I  sent  word  to 
Hasaballah  to  give  four  camels  to  the  Sheik.  And 
everybody  was  happy,  everybody's  honor  was  satis 
fied,  and  there  was  but  little  scandal  and  no  foul- 
mouthed  gossip  to  hurt  the  woman's  reputation. 

"I  have  told  you  how  we  Moslems,  being  the  wisest 
of  mankind,  settle  affairs  of  honor  and  love.  Tell  me, 
do  you  not  think  that  our  way  is  better  than  your 
crude  Christian  method  of  airing  such  matters  in  a 
public  court  of  law,  and  of  announcing  to  a  jeering 
world  the  little  details  of  harem  life  and  of  love  mis 
placed?" 

After  a  moment's  reflection  the  Englishman  replied : 
"I  must  say,  since  you  ask  me,  that  I  consider  yours 
a  disgraceful  way  of  bargaining  for  a  few  camels 
where  the  shame  of  a  misled  woman  and  the  honor  of 
an  outraged  husband  are  in  the  balance.  In  my  coun 
try,  as  you  say,  the  whole  affair  would  have  been  aired 
in  court  and  considered  from  every  possible  point  of 
view,  thus  giving  the  respondent,  the  petitioner,  and 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  FOUR  CAMELS     171 

the  co-respondent  equally  fair  chances.  The  judge 
finally,  according  to  our  strict  though  humane  law, 
would  have  pronounced  a  divorce  decree  in  favor  of 
the  Sheik,  and  would  have  sentenced  Hasaballah  to 
pay  to  the  Sheik  a  heavy  fine — a  fine  of  many  hun 
dreds  of  pounds." 

And  Ibrahim  interrupted  quickly : 

"But,  beloved  one,  you  have  no  camels  in  your 
country." 


THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD 

HE  judged  each  act  of  the  passing  days  by  three 
pictures  in  the  back  cells  of  his  brain.  These  pictures 
never  weakened,  never  receded;  neither  during  his 
meals,  which  he  shared  with  the  other  students  at  Frau 
Grosser's  pension  in  the  Dahlmannstrasse,  nor  during 
his  hours  of  study  and  research  spent  over  glass  tubes 
and  crucibles  and  bottles  and  retorts  in  the  Royal 
Prussian  Chemical  Laboratory  overlooking  Unter  den 
Linden,  with  Professor  Kreutzer's  grating,  sarcastic 
yoice  at  his  left  ear,  the  rumbling  basso  of  the  profes 
sor's  German  assistants  at  his  right. 

There  was  one  picture  which  showed  him  the  island 
of  Kiushu  rising  from  the  cloudy  gray  of  the  China 
Sea,  black-green  with  cedar  and  scarlet  with  autumn 
maple,  and  the  pink  snow  of  cherry  fluffing  April  and 
early  May;  the  island  which  stood  to  him  for  princely 
Satsuma,  and  Satsuma; — since  he  was  a  samurai,  per 
mitted  to  wear  two  swords,  the  daito  and  the  shoto — 
for  the  whole  of  Japan. 

There  was  the  picture  of  his  grandfather,  the  Mar 
quis  Takagawa — his  father  had  gone  down  fighting 
his  ship  against  the  Russians  under  Makarov — who 
in  his  youth  had  drawn  the  sword  for  the  Shogun 
against  the  Mikado  in  the  train  of  Saigo,  the  rebel 
chief,  who  had  finally  made  his  peace  with  his  sov 
ereign  lord  and  had  given  honorable  oath  that  he 
would  lay  the  lives,  the  courage,  and  the  brains  of 

172 


THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          173 

his  descendants  for  all  time  to  come  on  the  altar  of 
Nippon  to  atone  for  the  sin  of  his  hot  youth. 

There  was,  thirdly,  the  memory  of  his  old  tutor, 
Komoto,  a  bonze  of  the  Nichiren  sect  who  had  made 
senaji  pilgrimages  to  the  thousand  shrines,  who  had 
taught  him  the  Chinese  classics  from  the  Diamond 
Sutra  to  the  King-Kong-King,  later  on  the  wisdom 
of  Ogawa  and  Kimazawa  and  the  bushi  no  ichi-gon — 
the  lessons  of  Bushido,  the  lore  of  the  two-handed 
sword,  the  ancient  code  of  Nippon  chivalry. 

"The  spiritual  light  of  the  essential  being  is  pure," 
Komoto  had  said  to  the  marquis  when  the  governors 
of  the  cadet  school  at  Nagasaki  had  decided  that  the 
young  samurai's  body  was  too  weak,  his  eyes  too  short 
sighted,  his  blood  too  thin  to  stand  the  rigorous  mili 
tary  training  of  modern  Japan.  "It  is  not  affected  by 
the  will  of  man.  It  is  written  in  the  book  of  Kung 
Tzeu  that  not  only  the  body  but  also  the  brain  can 
raise  a  levy  of  shields  against  the  enemy." 

"Yes,"  the  marquis  had  replied;  for  he,  too,  was 
versed  in  the  Chinese  classics.  "Ships  that  sail  the 
ocean,  drifting  clouds,  the  waning  moon,  shores  that 
are  washed  away — these  are  symbolic  of  change. 
These,  and  the  body.  But  the  human  mind  is  essen 
tial,  absolute,  changeless,  and  everlasting.  O  Taka- 
mori-san!"  He  had  turned  to  his  grandson.  "You 
will  go  to  Europe  and  learn  from  the  foreigners,  with 
your  brain,  since  your  body  is  too  weak  to  carry  the 
burden  of  the  two-handed  sword.  You  will  learn 
with  boldness,  with  patience,  and  with  infinite  trouble. 
You  will  learn  not  for  reward  and  merit,  not  for  your 
self,  but  for  Nippon.  Every  grain  of  wisdom  and 
knowledge  that  falls  from  the  table  of  the  foreigners 
you  will  pick  up  and  store  away  for  the  needs  of  the 


174  ALIEN  SOULS 

Rising  Sun.  You  will  learn — and  learn.  But  you  will 
learn  honorably.  For  you  are  a  samurai,  O  Taka- 
mori-san !" 

And  so  the  young  samurai  took  ship  for  Europe. 
He  was  accompanied  by  Kaguchi,  an  old  family  serv 
ant,  short,  squat,  flat-nosed,  dark  of  skin  and  long  of 
arm.  A  low-caste  he  was  who  had  sunk  his  person 
ality  in  that  of  the  family  whom  his  ancestors  had 
been  serving  for  generations,  who  had  never  consid 
ered  his  personal  honor  but  only  that  of  his  master's 
clan  which  to  him  stood  for  the  whole  of  Nippon. 

If  Takagawa  Takamori  had  been  small  among  the 
short,  sturdy  daimios  of  Kiushu,  he  seemed  wizened 
and  diminutive  among  the  long-limbed,  well-fleshed 
men  of  Prussia  and  Mecklenburg,  and  Saxony  who 
crowded  the  chemical  laboratory  of  Professor  Kreut- 
zer.  Gentlemen  according  to  the  stiff,  angular,  ram 
rod  German  code,  they  recognized  that  the  little  parch 
ment-skinned,  spectacled  Asian  was  a  gentleman  ac 
cording  to  his  own  code,  and  so,  while  they  pitied  him 
after  the  manner  of  big  blond  men,  lusty  of  tongue, 
hard  of  thirst  and  greedy  of  meat,  they  sympathized 
with  him.  They  even  liked  him;  and  they  tried  to 
help  him  when  they  saw  his  narrow-lidded,  myopic 
eyes  squint  over  tomes  and  long-necked  glass  retorts 
in  a  desperate  attempt  to  assimilate  in  six  short  semes 
ters  the  chemical  knowledge  which  Europe  had  gar 
nered  in  the  course  of  twice  a  hundred  years. 

Professor  Kreutzer,  who  had  Semitic  blood  in  his 
veins  and  was  thus  in  the  habit  of  leaping  at  a  subject 
from  a  flying  start  and  handling  it  with  consciously 
dramatic  swiftness,  was  frequently  exasperated  at  Ta- 
kagawa's  slowness  of  approach  and  comprehension. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  German  training  and  traditions 


iTHE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD  175 

made  him  appreciate  and  admire  the  student's  Asiatic 
tenacity  of  purpose,  his  steel-riveted  thoroughness  and 
efficiency  which  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  forget 
a  fact  which  he  had  once  mastered  and  stored  away. 
Perhaps  his  method  of  learning  was  parrotlike.  Per 
haps  his  memory  was  mechanical,  automatic,  the  fruit 
of  his  early  schooling  when,  with  the  mountain  wind 
blowing  icy  through  the  flimsy  shoji  walls,  he  had  knelt 
in  front  of  Komoto  and  had  laboriously  learned  by 
heart  long  passages  from  the  Yuen-Chioh  and  the  eru 
dite  commentaries  of  Lao-tse.  Whatever  the  basic 
cause,  whatever  his  method,  the  result  was  peculiar — 
and  startling  to  his  fellow  students.  Given  a  certain 
discussion,  a  certain  argument  which  sent  his  German 
class-mates  scuttling  for  library  and  reference  books, 
the  young  samurai  seemed  to  turn  on  a  special  spigot 
in  his  brain  and  give  forth  the  desired  information 
like  a  sparkling  stream. 

"Sie  sind  ja  so'n  echter  Wunderknabe,  Sie  Miniatur 
gelbe  Gefahr!"  (for  that's  what  he  called  him:  a 
"miniature  yellow  peril")  the  professor  would  ex 
claim  ;  and  he  would  give  him  a  resounding  slap  on  the 
back  which  would  cause  the  little  wizened  body  to 
shake  and  smart. 

But,  sensing  the  kindliness  beneath  rough  words 
and  rougher  gesture,  Takagawa  would  bow  old-fash- 
ionedly,  with  his  palms  touching  his  knees,  and  suck 
in  his  breath  noisily. 

He  was  learning — learning  honorably ;  and  at  night, 
when  he  returned  to  his  rooms  in  the  pension,  he 
would  go  over  the  garnered  wisdom  of  the  day  to 
gether  with  Kaguchi,  his  old  servant.  Word  for  word 
he  would  repeat  to  him  what  he  had  learned,  until  the 
latter,  whose  brain  was  as  that  of  his  master — per- 


i?6  ALIEN  SOULS 

sistent,  parrotlike,  mechanical — could  reel  off  the 
chemical  formulae  with  the  ease  and  fluency  of  an  an 
cient  professor  gray  in  the  craft.  He  had  no  idea 
what  the  barbarous  foreign  sounds  meant.  But  they 
amused  him.  Also  he  was  proud  that  his  young  mas 
ter  understood  their  meaning — his  young  master  who 
stood  to  him  for  Kiushu  and  the  whole  of  Nippon. 

Summer  of  the  year  1914  found  Takagawa  still  at 
work  under  Professor  Kreutzer,  together  with  half  a 
dozen  German  students  who  like  himself  were  using 
the  Long  Vacations  for  a  postgraduate  course  in  spe 
cial  chemical  research,  and  a  Prussian  officer,  a  Lieu 
tenant  Baron  Horst  von  Eschingen,  who  on  his  arrival 
was  introduced  by  the  professor  as  "a  rara  avis  indeed 
— pardon  me,  baron !"  with  a  lop-sided,  sardonic  grin — 
"a  brass-buttoned,  much-gallooned,  spurred,  and  booted 
East-Elbian  Junker  who  is  graciously  willing  to  de 
scend  into  the  forum  of  sheepskin  and  learned  dust 
and  stinking  chemicals,  and  imbibe  knowledge  at  the 
feet  of  as  humble  a  personage  as  myself." 

The  German  students  laughed  boisterously,  while 
the  baron  smiled.  For  it  was  well  known  throughout 
the  empire  that  Professor  Kreutzer  was  a  Liberaler 
who  disliked  bureaucratic  authority,  sneered  at  the 
military,  and  was  negligent  of  imperial  favor. 

From  the  first  Takagawa  felt  a  strong  liking  and 
even  kinship  for  Baron  von  Eschingen.  He  under 
stood  him.  The  man,  tall,  lean,  powerful,  red-faced, 
ponderous  of  gesture  and  raucous  of  speech,  was  nev 
ertheless  a  samurai  like  himself.  There  was  no  doubt 
of  it.  It  showed  in  his  stiff  punctiliousness  and  also 
in  his  way  of  learning — rather  of  accepting  teaching. 
For  the  professor,  who  welcomed  the  opportunity  of 
bullying  with  impunity  a  member  of  the  hated  ruling 


THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          177 

classes,  took  a  delight  in  deviling  the  baron's  soul,  in 
baiting  him,  in  putting  to  him  sudden  questions  hard 
to  solve  and  pouncing  on  him  when  the  answer  did 
not  come  swift  enough,  with  such  remarks  as:  "Of 
course,  lieber  Herr  Leutnant,  what  can  I  expect  ?  This 
is  not  a  hollow  square,  nor  a  firing  squad,  nor  any 
thing  connected  with  martingale  or  rattling  scabbard. 
This  is  science — the  humble  work  of  the  proletariat — 
and,  by  God,  it  needs  the  humble  brain  of  the  prole 
tariat  to  understand  it." 

Another  time — the  baron  was  specializing  in  poison 
ous  gases  and  their  effect  on  the  human  body — the 
professor  burst  out  with :  "I  can't  get  it  through  my 
head  why  you  find  it  so  terribly  difficult  to  master  the 
principles  of  gas.  I  have  always  thought  that  the 
army  is  making  a  specialty  of — gas  bags !" 

Von  Eschingen  would  bite  his  mustache  and  blush. 
But  he  would  not  reply  to  the  other's  taunts  and  gibes ; 
and  Takagawa  knew  that  the  baron,  too,  was  learn 
ing;  learning  honorably;  nor  because  of  reward  and 
merit. 

They  worked  side  by  side  through  the  warm,  soft 
July  afternoons — while  the  sun  blazed  his  golden  pano 
ply  across  a  cloudless  sky  and  the  scent  of  the  linden 
trees,  drifting  in  through  the  open  windows,  cried 
them  out  to  field  and  garden — cramming  their  minds 
with  the  methodical  devices  of  exact  science,  staining 
their  hands  with  sharp  acids  and  crystals,  with  the  pro 
fessor  wielding  his  pedagogic  whip,  criticizing,  sneer 
ing,  mercilessly  driving.  More  than  once,  when  Kreut- 
zer's  back  was  turned,  Takagawa  would  help  the 
baron,  whisper  him  word  or  chemical  formula  from 
the  fund  of  his  tenacious  Oriental  brain,  and  then  the 
two  would  laugh  like  naughty  schoolboys,  the  German 


178  ALIEN  SOULS 

with  short,  staccato  bursts  of  merriment,  the  Japan 
ese  discreetly,  putting  his  hand  over  his  mouth. 

Finally  one  afternoon  as  they  were  leaving  the 
laboratory  together  and  were  about  to  go  their  sepa 
rate  ways  at  the  corner  of  the  Dorotheenstrasse,  Ta- 
kagawa  bowed  ceremoniously  before  the  officer  and, 
painfully  translating  in  his  mind  from  the  Chinese 
book  of  etiquette  into  Japanese  and  thence  into  the 
harsh  vagaries  of  the  foreign  tongue,  begged  him  to 
tie  the  strings  of  his  traveling  cloak  and  deign  to  set 
his  honorable  feet  in  the  miserable  dwelling  of  Taka- 
gawa  Takamori,  there  to  partake  of  mean  food  and 
entirely  worthless  hospitality. 

Baron  von  Eschingen  smiled,  showing  his  fine, 
white  teeth,  clicked  his  heels,  and  accepted;  and  the 
following  evening  found  the  curious  couple  in  Taka- 
gawa's  room:  the  former  in  all  the  pale-blue  and  sil 
ver  glory  of  his  regimentals,  the  latter,  having  shed 
his  European  clothes,  wrapped  in  a  cotton  crepe  robe 
embroidered  on  the  left  shoulder  with  a  single  pink 
chrysanthemum,  queer  and  hieratic — the  mon,  the 
coat  of  arms  of  his  clan. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  baron  had  brought  with  him 
a  healthy,  meat-craving  German  appetite,  and  he  felt 
disappointed  when  all  his  host  offered  him  was  a  plate 
of  paper-thin  rice  wafers  and  some  very  pale,  very 
tasteless  tea  served  in  black  celadon  cups.  His  dis 
appointment  changed  to  embarrassment  when  the  Jap 
anese,  before  filling  the  cups,  went  through  a  lengthy 
ceremony,  paying  exaggerated  compliments  in  halting 
German,  extolling  his  guest's  nobility,  and  laying  stress 
on  his  own  frightful  worthlessness. 

"And  the  funny  little  beggar  did  it  with  all  the  dig 
nity  of  a  hidalgo,"  the  baron  said  the  next  morning 


THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD  179 

to  a  major  in  his  regiment  who  had  spent  some  years 
as  military  attache  in  Japan.  "Positively  seemed  to 
enjoy  it." 

The  major  laughed.  "Why,"  he  replied,  "you  ought 
to  feel  highly  honored.  For  that  Jap  paid  you  no 
end  of  a  compliment.  He  has  initiated  you  into  the 
cha-no-yu,  the  honorable  ceremony  of  tea  sipping,  thus 
showing  you  that  he  considers  you  his  equal." 

"His — his  equal  ?"  flared  up  the  other,  who,  away 
from  the  laboratory,  was  inclined  to  be  touchy  on 
points  of  family  and  etiquette. 

"To  be  sure.  Didn't  you  say  his  name  is  Taka- 
gawa  Takamori  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well — the  Takagawas  are  big  guns  in  their  own 
land.  They  don't  make  'em  any  bigger.  They  are 
relatives  of  the  Mikado,  cousins  to  all  the  feudal 
houses  of  Satsuma,  descendants  of  the  gods,  and  what 
not—" 

It  was  not  altogether  snobbishness  which  caused  the 
German  to  cultivate  the  little  Asiatic  after  that.  He 
really  liked  him.  At  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  they 
were  friends — strangely  assorted  friends  who  had  not 
much  in  common  except  chemistry,  who  had  not  much 
to  talk  about  except  acids  and  poisonous  gases.  But 
they  respected  each  other,  and  many  a  sunny  afternoon 
found  them  strolling  side  by  side  through  the  crowded 
thoroughfares  of  Berlin,  the  baron  swinging  along 
with  his  long,  even  step,  the  tip  of  his  scabbard 
smartly  bumping  against  the  asphalt,  while  Taka- 
gawa  tripped  along  very  much  like  a  small,  owlish 
child,  peering  up  at  the  big  man  through  the  concave 
lenses  of  his  spectacles. 

Only  once  did  the   samurai  mention   the  reasons 


i8o  ALIEN  SOULS 

which  had  brought  him  to  Europe.  Tfiey  were  pass 
ing  the  Pariser  Platz  at  the  time,  and  stopped  and 
turned  to  look  at  the  half  company  of  Grenadiers  of 
the  Guard  who  were  marching  through  the  Branden- 
burger  Thor  to  change  the  castle  watch,  shoulders 
squared,  rifles  at  the  carry,  blue-clad  legs  shooting 
forth  at  right  angles,  toes  well  down,  the  spotless 
metal  on  spiked  helmet  and  collar  and  belt  mirroring 
the  afternoon  sun,  while  the  drum  major  shook  his 
horse-tailed  bell  tree  and  a  mounted  captain  jerked 
out  words  of  command: 

"Achtung!  Augen — links!  Vorwarts!  Links  an! 
Links  an!  Marsch!" 

Takagawa  pointed  a  lean,  brown  finger. 

"The  scabbard  of  my  blue  steel  spear  is  the  liver  of 
my  enemy,"  he  quoted  softly,  translating  from  the 
Japanese.  "I  carry  the  red  life  on  my  finger  tips; 
I  have  taken  the  vow  of  a  hero !"  and  when  the  baron 
looked  down,  uncomprehending,  asking  astonishedly : 
"Hero?  Hero?"  the  other  gave  a  little,  crooked  smile. 

"The  mind  too  fights  when  the  body  is  too  weak 
to  carry  the  burden  of  the  two-handed  sword,"  he 
explained.  "The  mind  too  can  be  a  hero.  Mine  is!" 
he  added,  with  utter  simplicity.  "For  my  body  aches 
for  the  touch  of  steel,  while  I  force  my  mind  to  drink 
the  learning  of  books.  My  mind  bends  under  the 
strain  of  it.  But  I  do  it — for  Japan." 

The  baron's  hand  descended  on  his  friend's  lean 
shoulder. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  understand,  old  boy.  I  have 
an  older  brother.  No  good  for  the  King's  coat — lost 
a  leg  when  he  was  a  kid.  Family  shot  him  into  the 
Foreign  Ministry.  Works  like  a  slave.  But,  auf 
Ehrenwort,  he  hates  it,  the  poor  old  beggar!" — and, 


THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          181 

seeing  a  drop  of  moisture  in  the  other's  oblique  eyes, 
he  went  on  hurriedly:  "Now,  as  to  that  gas — that 
new  one  Kreutzer  is  driveling  about — with  some  un 
earthly,  jaw-breaking  Greek  name  and  that  fine,  juicy 
stink  to  it — do  you  remember  how — "  And  a  moment 
later  they  were  deep  once  more  in  the  discussion  of 
poison  gases. 

July  swooned  into  August  and,  overnight,  it  seemed, 
the  idyl  of  peace  was  spattered  out  by  a  brushful  of 
blood.  Excitement  struck  Berlin  like  a  crested  wave. 
People  cheered.  People  laughed.  People  wept.  A 
conjurer's  wand  swung  from  Spandau  to  Kopenick, 
thence  east  to  Posen,  and  north  and  northwest  in  a 
semicircle,  touching  Kiel,  Hamburg,  Cologne,  and 
Mayence.  A  forest  of  flags  sprang  up.  Soldiers 
marched  in  never-ending  coils  down  the  streets,  horse 
and  foot,  foot  again,  and  the  low,  dramatic  rumbling 
of  the  guns.  They  crowded  the  railway  stations  from 
Lehrter  Bahnhof  to  Friedrichstrasse  Bahnhof.  They 
entrained,  cheered,  were  cheered,  leaned  from  carriage 
windows,  floppy,  unstarched  fatigue  caps  set  jauntily 
on  close-cropped  heads,  singing  sentimental  songs : 

Lebt  wohl,  ihr  Frauen  und  ihr  Madchen, 
Und  schafft  euch  einen  And' r en  an.  ... 

The  cars  pulled  away,  bearing  crudely  chalked  leg 
ends  on  their  brown  sides — "This  car  for  Paris!" 
"This  car  for  Brussels!"  "This  car  for  Calais!"-— 
and,  twenty-four  hours  later,  the  world  was  startled 
from  stupid,  fattening  sleep  through  the  news  that 
Belgium  had  been  invaded  by  the  gray-green  hordes, 
led  by  generals  who  had  figured  out  each  chance  of 
victory  and  achievement  with  logarithmic,  infallible 


182  ALIEN  SOULS 

cunning,  and  that  already  the  Kaiser  had  ordered  the 
menu  which  should  be  served  him  when  he  entered 
Paris. 

The  wave  of  war  struck  the  laboratory  and  the  pen 
sion  in  the  Dahlmannstrasse  together  with  the  rest  of 
Berlin. 

People  assumed  new  duties,  new  garb,  new  lan 
guage,  new  dignity — and  new  psychology.  The  old 
Germany  was  gone.  A  new  Germany  had  arisen — a 
colossus,  a  huge,  crunching  animal  of  a  country, 
straddling  Europe  on  massive  legs,  head  thrown  back, 
shoulders  flung  wide;  proud,  defiant!  And  sullen! 
Takagawa  did  not  understand.  He  had  come  to 
Berlin  to  learn  honorably.  He  was  not  familiar  with 
European  politics,  and  Belgium  was  only  a  geograph 
ical  term  to  him. 

War?  Of  course!  War!  It  meant  honor  and 
strength  and  sacrifice.  But — 

There  was  Hans  Grosser,  the  only  son  of  Frau 
Grosser,  the  comfortable,  stout  Silesian  widow  who 
kept  the  pension.  Long,  lean,  pimply,  clumsy,  an  un 
derpaid  clerk  in  the  Dresdner  Bank,  he  had  been  here 
tofore  the  butt  of  his  mother's  boarders.  When  at  the 
end  of  the  meal  the  Kompottschale,  filled  with  stewed 
fruit,  was  passed  down  the  table,  he  was  the  last  to 
help  himself,  and  then  apologetically.  The  day  after 
war  was  declared  he  came  to  dinner — his  last  dinner 
before  leaving  for  the  front — in  gray-green,  with  a 
narrow  gold  braid  on  his  buckram-stiffened  collar,  gold 
insignia  on  his  epaulet,  a  straight  saber  dragging  be 
hind  his  clicking  spurs  like  a  steel-forged  tail.  Over 
night  the  negligible  clerk  had  become  Herr  Leutnant — 
second  lieutenant  in  the  reserves,  detailed  to  the  I24th 
Infantry.  The  butt  had  become  the  potential  hero. 


THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          183 

He  was  listened  to,  bowed  to.  He  was  the  first  to  dip 
the  battered  silver  spoon  into  the  Kompottschale. 

Dinner  over,  cigars  and  cigarettes  lit,  he  held  court, 
leaning  over  the  piano  in  all  his  gray-green  glory.  He 
received  congratulations  which  he  accepted  with  a 
yawn.  But  when  Takagawa  bowed  to  him,  saying 
something  very  kindly  and  very  stiltified  in  his  awk 
ward  German,  Grosser  looked  him  up  and  down  as  he 
might  some  exotic  and  nauseating  beetle,  and  it  was 
clear  that  the  other  boarders  approved  of  his  strange 
conduct. 

It  was  the  same  in  the  laboratory.  When  he  en 
tered  the  students  who  were  already  there  turned 
stony  eyes  upon  him. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen,"  he  said.  A  harsh, 
rasping  sound,  something  between  a  cough  and  a  snort, 
was  the  reply. 

Only  the  professor  seemed  unchanged. 

"Good  morning,  miniature  yellow  peril!"  he  said, 
while  the  German  students  formed  into  a  group  near 
the  window  whence  they  could  see  the  soldiers  file 
down  Unter  den  Linden,  with  the  hollow  tramp- 
tramp-tramp  of  drilled  feet,  the  brasses  braying  out 
their  insolent  call. 

They  seemed  silent  and  grave  and  stolid,  though  at 
times  given  to  unreasonable,  hectic  fits  of  temper. 
They  talked  excitedly  among  themselves  about  "Welt- 
politik"  about  "Unser  Plats  in  der  Sonne"  and 
"Deutsche  Ideate."  Every  once  in  a  while  one  of  them 
would  whisper  something  about  "die  Engl'dnder," 
pronouncing  the  word  as  if  it  were  a  dread  talisman. 
Another  would  pick  up  the  word:  "die  Engl'dnder," 
with  a  tense,  minatory  hiss.  Then  again  they  would 
all  talk  together,  excitedly;  and  once  Takagawa,  busy 


184  ALIEN  SOULS 

with  a  brass  crucible  and  a  handful  of  pink  crystals, 
could  hear:  "JaPan — the  situation  in  the  Far  East — 
Kiauchau — " 

Baron  von  Eschingen,  usually  punctual  to  the  min 
ute,  did  not  make  an  appearance  at  the  laboratory 
that  morning. 

"Getting  ready  for  the  wholesale  butchery,"  the 
professor  explained  to  Takagawa  in  an  undertone. 
"Sharpening  his  cleaver  and  putting  a  few  extra  teeth 
in  his  meat  saw,  I've  no  doubt." 

Takagawa  felt  disappointed.  He  would  have  liked 
to  say  good-by  to  his  friend,  ceremoniously.  For  he 
remembered  how  his  father  had  gone  forth  at  the 
outbreak  of  the  Russo-Japanese  War.  He  had  only 
been  a  small  child  at  the  time,  but  he  recollected  every 
thing:  how  his  mother  and  grandmother  had  bowed 
low  and  had  spoken  unctuously  of  naijo,  of  inner  help; 
how  the  little  girls  of  the  household  had  brought  their 
Teai-ken  dirks  to  be  blessed  by  the  departing  warrior; 
how  Komoto  had  quoted  long  passages  from  the  Po- 
ro-po-lo-mi,  reenforcing  them  with  even  lengthier 
quotations  from  the  Fuh-ko;  how  his  father  had  taken 
him  to  his  arms  with  the  true  bushi  no  nasake,  the 
true  tenderness  of  a  warrior,  and  how  immediately 
after  his  father  had  left  the  women  had  put  on  plain 
white  linen  robes,  without  hems,  as  the  ancient  rites 
prescribe  for  widows. 

"You — you  don't  think  he'll  come  back  here  before 
he  leaves  for  the  front?"  he  asked  the  professor. 

"Certainly,"  laughed  the  other.  "He  isn't  through 
yet  with  these!"  indicating  a  wizardly  array  of  tubes 
and  pipes  whence  acrid,  sulphurous  fumes  were  rising 
to  be  caught,  yellow,  cloudy,  whirling,  in  a  bulb- 
shaped  retort  which  hung  from  the  ceiling. 


[THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD  185 

"But — he  is  a  samurai,  a  soldier!"  stammered  Ta- 
kagawa.  "What  have  these — these  gases  to  do  with — " 

"With  war?"  Kreutzer  gave  a  cracked  laugh. 
"Don't  you  know?" 

"I  know  the  ingredients.  I  know  how  the  gas  is 
produced." 

"Oh,  you  do;  do  you?" 

"Yes." 

And  Takagawa,  turning  on  the  right  spigot  in  his 
fact-gathering  brain,  reeled  off  the  correct  formula  in 
all  its  intricacies. 

The  professor  laughed  again.  "And  you  mean  to 
say,"  he  asked  in  the  same  sibilant  undertone,  "that 
you  have  no  idea  what  the  gas  is  for — that  you  have 
no  idea  why  Baron  von  Eschingen  has  honored  us 
these  six  weeks  with  his  spurred  and  booted  presence  ?" 

"Why— no!" 

Kreutzer  slapped  his  knees.  "Blessed  innocence!" 
he  chuckled.  "Blessed,  spectacled,  yellow-skinned, 
Asiatic  innocence!  It  is —  Well,  never  mind!" 

He  turned  to  the  German  students  who  were  still 
talking  excitedly  among  themselves. 

"Silentium !"  he  thundered.  "War  is  all  very  well, 
gentlemen.  But  we  are  not  here  to  kill  or  to  remake 
the  map  of  Europe.  We  are  here  to  learn  about — " 
And  then  a  lengthy  Greek  word  and  the  hush  of  the 
classroom. 

The  baron,  who  had  shed  his  pale-blue  and  silver 
regimentals  for  a  uniform  of  gray-green,  came  in  to 
ward  the  end  of  the  lesson.  He  spoke  courteously  to 
the  students,  who  instinctively  stood  at  attention,  shook 
hands  with  Takagawa  with  his  usual  friendliness,  and 
drew  the  professor  into  a  corner  where  he  engaged 
him  in  a  low,  heated  conversation. 


i86  ALIEN  SOULS 

"I  won't  do  it!"  Takagawa  could  hear  Kreutzer's 
angry  hiss.  "The  lesson  is  over.  I  insist  on  my 
academic  freedom!  I  am  a  free  burgess  of  the  uni 
versity.  I — "  and  the  baron's  cutting  reply :  "This  is 
war,  Herr  Professor!  I  am  here  by  orders  of  the 
Ministry  of  War.  I  order  you  to — " 

Takagawa  smiled.  Here  was  the  real  samurai 
speaking;  and  he  was  still  smiling  ecstatically  when,  a 
moment  later,  the  professor  turned  to  the  class. 

"Go  downstairs,  meine  Herren,"  he  said.  "I  have 
a  private  lesson  to  give  to — to" — he  shot  out  the  word 
venomously — "to  our  army  dunce!  To  our  saber- 
rattling  gray-green  hope !  To  our  so  intelligent  East- 
Elbian  Junker!  To—" 

"Shut  up!"  came  the  baron's  harsh  voice.  "Don't 
you  dare,  you  damned — "  At  once  he  controlled  him 
self.  He  forced  himself  to  smile.  "I  am  sorry,  gen 
tlemen,"  he  said,  "to  disturb  you  and  to  interfere  with 
your  lessons  in  any  way.  But  I  have  some  private 
business  with  the  professor.  War — you  know — the 
necessities  of  war — " 

"Yes— yes— " 

"Naturlich!" 

"Selbstverstandlick  /" 

"Sie  haben  ganz  Recht,  Herr  Leutnant!"  came  the 
chorus  of  assent,  and  the  students  left  the  laboratory 
together  with  Takagawa,  who  went  last. 

"Wait  for  me  downstairs,  old  boy,"  the  baron 
called  after  him  as  he  was  about  to  close  the  door. 

Arrived  in  the  street,  without  civil  words  or  touch 
ing  their  hats,  the  German  students  turned  to  the  left 
to  take  their  "second  breakfast"  at  the  Cafe  Victoria, 
while  Takagawa  paced  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
building  to  wait  for  his  friend. 


[THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          187 

Troops  were  still  marching  in  never-ending  files, 
like  a  long,  coiling  snake  with  innumerable,  bobbing 
heads,  and  crowds  of  people  were  packing  the  side 
walks  in  a  dense  mass,  from  the  Brandenburger  Thor 
to  beyond  the  Schloss. 

They  whirled  about  Takagawa.  A  few  noticed 
him — only  a  few,  since  he  was  so  small — but  these  few 
glared  at  him.  They  halted  momentarily,  mumbling : 
"A  Japanese!" 

"Ein  Ausl'dnder!"     ( "A  foreigner !" ) 

There  was  sullen,  brooding  hatred  in  the  word 
where,  only  yesterday,  it  had  held  kindliness  and  hos 
pitality  and  tolerance. 

Takagawa  stepped  back  into  a  doorway.  Not  that 
he  was  afraid.  He  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the 
complicated  emotion  called  fear,  since  he  was  a  samu 
rai.  But  something  intangible,  something  nauseat 
ing  and  hateful,  seemed  to  float  up  from  the  crowd, 
like  a  veil  in  the  meeting  of  winds — the  air,  the  people, 
the  music,  everything,  suddenly  shot  through  with  pe 
culiar,  disturbing,  prismatic  diffractions. 

He  was  glad  when  the  baron's  tall  form  came  from 
the  laboratory  building. 

"Sorry  I  kept  you  waiting,"  said  the  officer,  slip 
ping  his  white-gloved  hand  through  the  other's  arm. 
"I've  only  a  minute  for  you  at  that.  Got  to  rush  back 
to  headquarters,  you  know.  But — a  word  to  the  wise 
— is  your  passport  in  order?" 

"Yes.     Why?" 

The  baron  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  last  question. 
He  took  a  visiting  card  from  his  pocketbook  and  scrib 
bled  a  few  rapid  words.  "Here  you  are,"  he  said, 
giving  the  card  to  Takagawa.  "Take  this  to  my  friend 
Police  Captain  von  Wilmowitz,  at  the  Presidency  of 


i88  ALIEN  SOULS 

Police — you  know — near  the  Spittelmarkt.  He'll  see 
to  it  that  you  get  away  all  right  before  it's  too  late — 
you,  and  your  old  servant,  Kaguchi — " 

"Get  away?     Too  late?     You  mean  that — " 

"That  you'd  better  wipe  your  feet  on  the  outer  door 
mat  of  the  German  Empire.  Get  out  of  the  country, 
in  other  words.  Go  to  Holland,  Switzerland — any 
where." 

"Why?" 

"War !"  came  the  baron's  laconic  reply. 

"Yes,  but  Japan  and  Germany  are  not  at  war !" 

The  baron  had  put  back  his  pocketbook  and  was 
buttoning  his  tunic.  "I  know,"  he  said.  "But  Eng 
land  declared  war  against  us  three  hours  ago,  and 
Japan  is  England's  ally.  Hurry  up.  Do  what  I  tell 
you.  I'll  drop  in  on  you  to-night  or  to-morrow  and 
see  how  you're  making  out."  He  turned  and  came 
back  again. 

"By  the  way,"  he  went  on,  "be  careful  about  any  pa 
pers  you  take  along.  Destroy  them.  Your  chemistry 
notebooks — the  notes  you  made  during  class.  There's 
that  poison  gas,  for  instance."  He  was  silent,  hesi 
tated,  and  continued:  "I'm  sorry  about  that,  Taka- 
gawa.  Puts  both  you  and  me  in  a  devilishly  embar 
rassing  position.  You  see,  I  had  no  idea — honestly — 
that  war  was  due  when  the  powers  that  be  detailed  me 
on  that  chemistry  course.  I  thought  it  was  all  a  tre 
mendous  bluff.  Otherwise  I  would  never  have  dreamt 
of  working  side  by  side  with  you,  comparing  notes  on 
these  poison-gas  experiments,  and  all  that.  Well" — he 
shrugged  his  shoulders — "what's  the  use  of  crying 
over  spilt  milk?  Burn  your  notebooks — chiefly  those 
dealing  with  the  gas."  And  he  was  off. 

Jakagawa  looked  after  him,  uncomprehending.  The 


[THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          189 

poison  gas !  Here  it  was  again.  The  same  mysterious 
allusion.  First  Professor  Kreutzer  had  spoken  of  it, 
and  now  the  baron. 

But  what  did  they  mean?    What  did  it  signify? 

Finally,  obeying  the  suggestion  of  the  dusty  labora 
tory  windows  looking  down  on  him  from  their  stone 
frames,  Takagawa  reentered  the  building  and  went 
straight  to  Professor  Kreutzer's  lecture  room. 

He  found  the  latter  seated  at  his  desk,  his  chin 
cupped  in  his  hands,  his  haggard  face  flushed  and 
congested.  The  man  seemed  to  be  laboring  under  an 
excitement  which  played  on  every  quivering  nerve  of 
his  body;  the  hand  supporting  the  lean  chin  showed 
the  high-swelling  veins,  and  trembled. 

He  looked  up  as  Takagawa  entered,  and  broke  into 
a  harsh  bellow  of  laughter.  "Come  back,  have  you, 
you  stunted  yellow  peril!" 

"Yes.    I  want  to  ask  you  about — about  the  gas." 

Again  the  professor  laughed  boisterously. 

"The  gas!"  he  cried.  "The  poison  gas!  To  be 
sure!  Not  quite  as  innocent  as  you  made  yourself 
out  to  be  a  while  back,  are  you?  Well,  by  God,  I'll 
tell  you  about  the  poison  gas !  Got  a  remarkable  sort 
of  brain,  haven't  you?  Retentive  faculty  abnormally 
developed — don't  need  written  notes  or  any  other  sort 
of  asses'  bridge,  eh?  Just  as  good!  Couldn't  take 
anything  written  out  of  Germany.  But  your  brain — 
your  tenacious  Oriental  brain — they  can't  put  that  to 
the  acid  test !  All  right !  Listen  to  me !" 

Professor  Kreutzer  did  not  stop  to  dissect  himself 
or  his  motives.  He  obeyed,  not  a  feeling,  a  sudden 
impulse,  but  a  pathological  mood  which  was  the  growth 
of  forty  years.  For  forty  years  he  had  hated  au 
tocratic,  imperial  Germany.  For  forty  years  he  had 


190  ALIEN  SOULS 

battled  with  his  puny  strength  against  militarism.  Now 
the  steel-clad  beast  had  won.  The  shadow  of  war  had 
fallen  over  the  land.  His  gods  lay  shattered  about 
him. 

Forty  years  of  ill-suppressed  hatred — brought  to  a 
head,  half  an  hour  earlier,  by  Baron  von  Eschingen's 
curt  command :  "This  is  war,  Herr  Professor.  I  am 
here  by  orders  of  the  Ministry  of  War.  I  order  you 
to— 

That  uniformed,  gold-braided  jackanapes  to  order 
him,  a  scientist,  a  thinker! 

Kreutzer  swore  wickedly  under  his  breath.  He 
turned  to  the  Japanese,  and  talked  to  him  at  length, 
going  with  minute  care  over  the  whole  process  of 
making  poison  gas,  from  the  first  innocuous-looking 
pink  crystal  to  the  final  choking  cloudy  yellow  fumes. 
He  made  Takagawa  repeat  it,  step  by  step,  formula 
by  formula.  Finally  he  declared  himself  satisfied. 
"You  know  it  now,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You'll  never  forget  it?" 

"No,  sir." 

"All  right.  You  have  what  you  came  here  to  get. 
In  one  respect  at  least  you  know  as  much  as  the  Ger 
man  War  Office.  Go  back  to  Japan — as  soon  as  you 
can."  He  returned  to  his  desk  and  picked  up  a  book. 

Takagawa  went  after  him.  "Herr  Professor!"  he 
said  timidly. 

"Well?     What  is  it  now?" 

"I — I — "  the  samurai  hesitated.  "I  know  the  gas. 
I  know  how  it  is  produced,  how  it  is  projected,  how  it 
affects  the  human  body.  I  understand  all  that.  But 
what  is  it  for?" 

"You — you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know?" 


THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          191 

9 

The  professor  twirled  in  his  chair,  utter  incredulity 
in  his  accents.  Then,  reading  the  question  in  Taka- 
gawa's  oblique  eyes,  sensing  that  the  man  was  asking 
in  perfect  good  faith,  in  perfect  innocence,  he  rose, 
took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  to  the  window.  He 
pointed.  Afternoon  had  melted  into  a  soft  evening 
of  glowing  violet  with  a  pale  moon  growing  faintly 
in  the  north.  The  linden  trees  stood  stiff  and  motion 
less  as  if  forged  out  of  a  dark-green  metal.  But  still 
the  soldiers  tramped.  Still  there  was  the  glitter  of 
rifle  barrel  and  sword  tip  and  lance  point.  Still  crowds 
packed  *he  sidewalks,  cheering.  The  professor  made 
a  great  gesture.  It  was  more  than  a  mere  waving  of 
hand  and  arm.  It  seemed  like  an  incident  which  cut 
through  the  air  like  a  tragic  shadow. 

"They  are  going  out  to  kill — with  bullet  and  steel. 
But  gas,  too,  can  kill — poison  gas,  projected  from 
iron  tanks  on  an  unsuspecting,  unprepared  enemy !  It 
can  win  a  battle,  a  campaign,  a  war!  It  can  change 
the  course  of  world  history !  It  can  ram  imperial  Ger 
many's  slavery  down  the  throat  of  a  free  world! 
Poison  gas — it  is  a  weapon — the  newest,  most  wicked, 
most  effective  weapon!"  The  professor  was  getting 
slightly  hysterical.  "Take  it  back  with  you  to  Japan 
— to  France,  to  England — anywhere!  Fight  us  with 
our  own  weapons !  Fight  us — and  give  us  freedom — 
freedom!"  And,  with  an  inarticulate  cry,  he  pushed 
the  Japanese  out  of  doors. 

Takagawa  walked  down  the  Dorotheenstrasse  like  a 
man  in  a  dream.  His  feelings  were  tossed  together 
into  too  violent  confusion  for  immediate  disentangle 
ment.  "You  will  learn,  not  for  reward  and  merit,  not 
for  yourself,  but  for  Japan !"  his  grandfather,  the  old 
marquis,  had  told  him.  And  he  had  learned  a  great 


192  ALIEN  SOULS 

secret — for  Japan.  And  Japan  would  need  it.  For, 
passing  the  newspaper  kiosk  at  the  corner  of  the  Wil- 
helmstrasse,  he  had  glanced  at  the  headlines  of  the 
evening  edition  of  the  "Vossische  Zeitung"^ 

"Japan  Stands  by  England.  Sends  Ultimatum. 
War  Inevitable!" 

War  inevitable — and  he  was  a  samurai,  a  man  en 
titled  to  wield  the  two-handed  sword,  though  his  body 
was  too  weak  to  carry  the  burden  of  it. 

What  of  it?  The  professor  had  told  him  that 
poison  gas,  too,  was  a  weapon,  the  most  modern,  most 
effective  weapon  in  the  world ;  and  he  had  its  formula 
tucked  snugly  away  in  his  brain. 

The  poison  gas!  It  was  his  sword!  But  first  he 
must  get  out  of  the  country.  He  hailed  a  taxicab  and 
drove  straight  to  the  Presidency  of  Police.  A  crowd 
of  foreigners  of  all  nationalities — anxious,  nervous, 
shouting,  gesticulating — was  surging  in  the  lower  en 
trance  hall  of  the  square,  baroque  building.  But  the 
baron's  card  proved  a  talisman,  and  in  less  than  half 
an  hour  Takagawa  had  seen  Police  Captain  von  Wil- 
mowitz,  had  had  his  passport  viseed  and  had  received 
permission  for  himself  and  his  servant  Kaguchi  to 
leave  Berlin  for  Lake  Constance  on  the  following  day. 

Captain  von  Wilmowitz  repeated  the  baron's  warn 
ing:  "Take  nothing  written  out  of  Germany. 
Neither  yourself  nor  your  servant.  They'll  examine 
you  both  thoroughly  at  the  Swiss  frontier.  Be  care 
ful,"  and  Takagawa  had  hidden  a  smile. 

Let  them  search  his  person,  his  clothes,  his  baggage. 
They  would  not  be  able  to  search  his  brain.  He 
started  figuring  rapidly.  He  would  go  to  Switzer 
land,  thence  via  Paris  to  London.  The  Japanese  am- 


THE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          193 

Bassador  there  was  a  second  cousin  of  his.  He  would 
give  him  the  precious  formula,  and  then — 

He  returned  to  the  pension  in  the  Dahlmannstrasse, 
settled  his  bill,  and  ordered  Kaguchi  to  pack.  Note 
book  after  notebook  he  burned,  and  as  he  worked  he 
was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  power.  There  was  no 
actual  presentiment,  no  psychic  preliminaries.  It  sim 
ply  was  there,  this  feeling  of  power,  as  if  it  had  al 
ways  been  there.  He  was  a  samurai,  and  his  was  the 
two-handed  sword — a  two-handed  sword  forged  in  a 
stinking,  bulb-shaped  glass  retort  and  shooting  forth 
yellow,  choking,  sulphurous  fumes. 

In  the  next  room  a  half  dozen  Germans  were  smok 
ing  and  drinking  and  singing.  He  could  hear  Hans 
Grosser's  excited  voice,  and  now  and  then  a  snatch  of 
song,  sentimental,  patriotic,  boastful,  and  he  thought 
that  he  too  would  soon  again  hear  the  songs  of  his 
fatherland,  back  in  the  island  of  Kiushu,  in  the  rocky 
feudal  stronghold  of  the  Takagawas.  The  bards 
would  be  there  singing  the  old  heroic  epics;  the 
uguisus  would  warble  the  old  melodies.  Komoto 
would  be  there,  and  he  himself,  and  his  grandfather, 
the  marquis. 

"You  will  learn  honorably!"  his  grandfather  had 
told  him.  And  he  had  learned.  He  was  bringing 
back  the  fruit  of  it  to  Nippon. 

He  turned  to  Kaguchi  with  a  laugh. 

"I  have  learned,  Kaguchi,  eh?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  old  servant,  "you  have  learned 
indeed,  O  Takamori-san !" 

"And" — he  said  it  half  to  himself — "I  have  learned 
honorably." 

Honorably? 


194  ALIEN  SOULS 

He  repeated  the  word  with  a  mental  question  mark 
at  the  end  of  it. 

Had  he  learned — honorably? 

He  stood  suddenly  quite  still.  An  ashen  pallor 
spread  to  his  very  lips.  He  dropped  the  coat  which 
he  was  folding.  Doubt  floated  upon  him  impercepti 
bly,  like  the  shadow  of  a  leaf  through  summer  dusk. 
Something  reached  out  and  touched  his  soul,  leaving 
the  chill  of  an  indescribable  uneasiness,  and  indescrib 
able  shame. 

"Honorably!"     He  whispered  the  word. 

He  sat  down  near  the  window,  looking  out  into 
the  street.  Night  had  fallen  with  a  trailing  cloak  of 
gray  and  lavender.  The  tall,  stuccoed  apartment 
houses  on  the  Kurfurstendamm,  a  block  away,  rose 
above  the  line  of  street  lamps  like  a  smudge  of  sooty 
black  beyond  a  glittering  yellow  band.  Still  people 
were  cheering,  soldiers  tramping. 

Kaguchi  spoke  to  him.  But  he  did  not  hear.  He 
stared  unseeing. 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  come  to  Germany, 
to  Berlin,  as  a  guest,  to  partake  of  the  fruit  of  wis 
dom  and  knowledge.  Richly  the  foreigners,  the  Ger 
mans,  had  spread  the  table  for  him.  Generously  they 
had  bidden  him  eat.  And  he  had  dipped  his  hands 
wrist-deep  into  the  bowl  and  had  eaten  his  fill  in  a 
friend's  house,  giving  thanks  according  to  the  law  of 
hospitality. 

Then  war  had  come.  Belgium,  France,  England, 
Russia — and  to-morrow  Japan.  To-morrow  the 
standard  of  the  Rising  Sun  would  unfurl.  To 
morrow  the  trumpets  would  blow  through  the  streets 
of  Nagasaki.  Peasants  and  merchants  and  samurai 
would  rush  to  arms. 


JHE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          195 

And  he  was  a  samurai;  and  he  had  a  weapon,  a 
weapon  of  Germany's  own  forging — the  formula  for 
the  poison  gas,  safely  tucked  away  in  his  brain. 

They  had  taught  him  in  good  faith.  And  he  had 
learned.  Nor  would  he  be  able  to  forget. 

Professor  Kreutzer?  He  did  not  count.  He  was 
a  traitor.  But  his  friend,  Baron  von  Eschingen,  the 
Prussian  samurai  who  had  worked  side  by  side  with 
him,  who  had  even  helped  him  get  away? 

Takagawa  walked  up  and  down.  His  labored, 
sibilant  breathing  sounded  terribly  distinct.  From  the 
next  room  there  still  came  excited  voices,  the  clink 
of  beer  steins,  maudlin  singing : 

Von  alien  den  Mddchen  so  blink  und  so 
blank  .  .  . 

winding  up  in  a  tremendous  hiccup.  But  he  did  not 
hear.  In  his  brain  something  seemed  to  flame  up 
ward,  illuminating  all  his  thoughts. 

They  were  very  clear.  He  could  not  stay  here,  in 
the  land  of  the  enemy,  while  Nippon  was  girding  her 
loins.  Nor  could  he  go  home.  For  home  he  was  a 
samurai,  entitled  to  wield  the  two-handed  sword. 
And  he  carried  that  sword  in  his  brain,  the  formula 
for  the  poison  gas.  He  would  be  forced — forced  by 
himself,  forced  by  his  love  of  country — to  give  it  to 
Nippon,  and  thus  he  would  break  the  law  of  hos 
pitality,  his  own  honor. 

He  had  learned  the  formula  honorably.  But  there 
was  no  way  of  using  it  honorably. 

A  great,  tearing  sob  rose  in  his  throat.  Then  he 
heard  a  voice  at  his  elbow:  "O  Takamori-san !" 

He  turned.     "Yes,  Kaguchi?" — and,  suddenly,  the 


196  ALIEN  SOULS 

answer  to  the  riddle  came  to  him.     He  looked  at  tHe 
old  servant. 

"You  love  me,  Kaguchi  ?"  he  asked. 

"My  heart  is  between  your  hands!" 

"You  trust  me?" 

Kaguchi  drew  himself  up. 

"You  are  a  samurai,  O  Takamori-san.  The  sword 
of  Kiushu  is  unsullied." 

"And  unsullied  it  shall  remain !  And  so,"  he  added 
incongruously,  "you  will  speak  after  me  the  foreign 
words  which  I  shall  now  teach  you,  syllable  for  sylla 
ble,  intonation  for  intonation";  and,  step  by  step, 
formula  by  formula,  he  taught  Kaguchi  the  meaning 
less  German  words. 

For  hours  he  worked  with  him  until  the  old  man 
reeled  off  the  strange  sounds  without  hitch  or  error. 

"You  know  now?"  he  asked  him  finally,  even  as 
the  professor  had  asked  him  earlier  in  the  afternoon. 

"Yes." 

"You'll  never  forget  it?" 

"No." 

Takamori  Takagawa  smiled. 

"Kaguchi,"  he  said,  "you  will  go  from  here  to 
London,  using  this  passport."  He  gave  him  the  offi 
cial  paper  which  Herr  von  Wilmowitz  had  viseed. 
"In  London  you  will  seek  out  the  ambassador  of 
Nippon,  who  is  my  cousin.  You  will  tell  him  word 
for  word  what  I  have  just  taught  you,  adding  that 
it  is  the  formula  of  a  poison  gas  and  that  this  gas  is 
mightier  than  the  two-handed  sword  and  will,  per 
haps,  win  the  war  for  Nippon  and  her  allies.  You 
will  furthermore  tell  him — and  let  this  message  be 
transmitted  by  him  to  my  respected  grandfather — that 
I  learned  this  formula  honorably,  but  that  I  could  not 


LTHE  TWO-HANDED  SWORD          197 

take  it  back  with  me  to  Nippon  without  sullying  the 
law  of  hospitality,  since  the  foreigners  taught  me  in 
good  faith.  I  myself,  being  thus  caught  between  the 
dagger  of  my  honor  and  the  dagger  of  my  country, 
have  tried  to  make  a  compromise  with  fate.  Honor 
ably  I  tried  to  do  my  duty  by  Nippon,  honorably  I 
tried  to  keep  the  law  of  hospitality  untainted.  I  do 
not  know  if  I  have  succeeded.  Thus — "  he  made  a 
gesture,  and  was  silent. 

Kaguchi  bowed.  His  rugged  old  face  was  motion 
less.  But  he  understood — and  approved. 

"You !     Ah — "  the  word  choked  him. 

"Yes."  Takamori  inclined  his  head.  He  used  the 
old  Chinese  simile  which  his  tutor  had  taught  him. 
"I  shall  ascend  the  dragon." 

He  put  his  hand  on  Kaguchi's  shoulder.  "Come 
back  here  in  half  an  hour,"  he  said.  "Fold  my  hands 
as  the  ancient  customs  demand.  Then  notify  my 
friend,  the  German  samurai.  He  will  help  you  get 
over  the  frontier — with  the  formula  safe  in  your 
brain." 

And  the  servant  bowed  and  left  the  room  without 
another  word. 

The  young  samurai  smiled  slowly.  An  old  quota 
tion  came  back  to  him :  "I  will  open  the  seat  of  my 
soul  with  a  dagger  of  pain  and  show  you  how  it 
fares  with  it.  See  for  yourself  whether  it  is  polluted 
or  clean." 

He  walked  across  the  room,  opened  the  mirror 
wardrobe,  and  took  from  the  top  shelf  a  dirk — a  splen 
did,  ancient  blade  in  a  lacquer  case,  whose  guard  was 
of  wrought  iron  shaped  like  a  chrysanthemum.  Then 
he  took  off  his  European  clothes  and  put  on  a  volu 
minous  white  hemless  robe  with  long,  trailing  sleeves. 


198  ALIEN  SOULS 

Very  slowly  he  knelt.  Carefully,  according  to  the 
rites,  he  tucked  the  sleeves  under  his  knees,  to  prevent 
himself  falling  backward,  since  a  samurai  should  die 
falling  forward.  He  took  the  dirk  from  the  scabbard. 

The  next  moment  it  had  disappeared  beneath  the 
flowing  draperies.  He  made  a  hardly  perceptible 
movement.  One  corner  of  his  mouth  was  slightly 
twisted,  the  first  sign  of  great  suffering  heroically 
borne.  His  right  leg  was  bent  back,  his  left  knee  too. 
Then  he  drew  the  dirk  slowly  across  to  his  right  side 
and  gave  a  cut  upward. 

Crimson  stained  his  white  robe.  His  eyes,  glazed, 
staring,  held  a  question — a  question,  a  doubt  to  the 
last.  Had  he  acted  honorably?  Had  he — ? 

He  fell  forward.  .  .  . 

It  was  thus  that  Baron  von  Eschingen,  ushered  in 
by  Kaguchi,  found  him. 

"Hara-kiri!"  he  said,  drawing  a  sheet  across  the 
dead  man's  face;  and  then,  quite  suddenly:  "Yes — 
yes.  I  understand — honorable  little  beggar!" 


BLACK  POPPIES 

DELICATELY,  with  nervous,  agile  fingers  he  kneaded 
the  brown  poppy  cube  against  the  tiny  bowl  of  his 
pipe,  then  dropped  it  into  the  open  furnace  of  the 
lamp  and  watched  the  flame  change  it  gradually  into 
amber  and  gold. 

The  opium  boiled,  sizzled,  dissolved,  evaporated. 
The  fragrant,  opalescent  smoke  rolled  in  sluggish 
clouds  over  the  mats,  and  Yung  Han-Rai,  having 
emptied  the  pipe  at  one  long-drawn  inhalation,  leaned 
back,  both  shoulders  pressed  well  down  on  the  square, 
hard,  leather  pillows,  so  as  better  to  inflate  his  chest 
and  keep  his  lungs  filled  all  the  longer  with  the  fumes 
of  the  kindly  drug. 

The  noises  of  the  outer  world  seemed  very  far 
away.  There  was  just  a  memory  of  street  cries  lift 
ing  their  hungry,  starved  arms;  just  a  memory  of 
whispering  river  wind  chasing  the  night  clouds  that 
clawed  at  the  moon  with  cool,  slim  fingers  of  white 
and  silver. 

A  slow  smile  overspread  Yung  Han-Rai's  placid, 
butter-yellow  features.  He  stared  at  the  rolling 
opium  clouds.  They  seemed  filled  with  a  roaring  sun 
set  of  colors,  fox-brown  and  steel-blue  and  purple; 
like  the  colors  of  his  past  dreams  moving  and  blazing 
before  him,  changing  into  his  future  dreams. 

That  evening  he  had  smoked  thirty-seven  pipes, 

199 


200  ALIEN  SOULS 

each  pipe  an  excellent  and  powerful  mixture  of  Yu- 
nan  and  Benares  poppy- juice. 

Earlier  in  the  evening  he  had  used  a  precious  pipe 
of  rose  crystal  with  a  yellow  jade  mouthpiece  and 
three  black  silk  tassels,  which  his  older  brother  had 
given  him  years  earlier,  during  the  Eighth  Moon  fes 
tival  in  honor  of  Huo  Shen,  the  god  of  fire.  It  was 
a  charming  pipe,  the  mouthpiece  carved  minutely  with 
all  the  divinities  of  the  Taoist  heaven,  from  Lao  Tzu 
himself  to  the  Spiritual  Exalted  One;  from  the  Pearly 
Emperor  to  the  Ancient  Original;  from  the  Western 
Royal  Mother  to  the  god  of  the  T'ai  Shan,  the  East 
ern  Peak,  who  watches  the  rock-strewn  coast  of  the 
Yellow  Sea  against  the  invasions  of  the  outer 
barbarian. 

Yung  Han-Rai  liked  this  pipe.  But  he  did  not 
love  it. 

He  loved  his  old  bamboo  pipe,  quite  plain,  with 
out  tassels  or  ornaments.  Once  it  had  been  white 
as  ivory.  But  to-day  it  was  blackish-brown,  with  a 
thousand  and  ten  thousand  smokes.  It  was  fragrant 
with  a  thousand  and  ten  thousand  exquisite  memories. 
Yung  Han-Rai  had  used  it  during  the  latter  part  of 
the  evening,  and  was  using  it  now. 

He  called  it  his  pipe  of  August  Permanence,  while 
he  called  the  other  his  pipe  of  Delightful  Vice,  com 
paring  the  first  to  a  wife  grown  gnarled  and  wrinkled 
and  berry-brown  in  her  lord's  service,  and  the  second 
to  a  courtezan,  whom  one  caresses,  pays  and — forgets. 

He  smoked  three  more  pipes,  one  after  the  other, 
in  rapid  succession. 

The  immaterial  substance  of  his  inner  self  had 
floated  away  on  the  gray  wings  of  smoke.  His  soul 
reached  to  his  former  life,  his  longings,  his  loneliness, 


S  BLACK  POPPIES  201 

and  his  failure.  It  was  failure  no  longer.  He  would 
find  that  old  life  fair  and  satisfying.  He  might  even 
find  the  lesser  gods. 

The  opium  sizzled  with  a  reedy,  fluting  song. 
There  was  no  other  sound.  Even  the  whispering  wind 
had  died;  the  street  cries  had  guttered  out  like  spent 
candles. 

He  smoked.  .  .  . 

Then  came  to  him  the  vision. 

He  saw  very  little  now  except  the  house  itself,  and, 
of  the  house,  veiled  through  the  opalescent  saraband 
of  the  poppy  fumes,  he  saw  really  only  the  three  violet 
lanterns  above  the  door. 

He  had  seen  the  house  so  often,  remembered  it  so 
well.  It  was  part  of  his  dreams,  thus  part  of  his 
real  life.  He  had  always  loved  it,  with  an  almost 
physical,  sensuous  love.  It  was  like  a  fretted,  chis 
eled  ingot,  with  a  pagoda  roof  that  shimmered  in 
every  mysterious  blending  of  blue  and  green  and  pur 
ple,  like  the  plumage  of  a  gigantic  peacock,  or  the 
shootings  of  countless  dragonflies. 

Too,  he  had  always  loved  the  three  lamps  below 
the  carved,  deep-brown  pagoda  beam.  They  were  of 
a  glorious,  glowing  violet,  faintly  dusted  with  gold; 
and,  depending  from  them,  fluttered  long  streamers 
of  pottery-red  satin,  with  inscriptions  from  the  Chi 
nese  classics  in  archaic  Mandarin  hieroglyphics. 

These  inscriptions  changed  every  night ;  they  seemed 
to  blend  with  his  own  changing  moods.  That  was 
their  greatest  charm. 

Last  night  he  had  been  in  a  poetic  mood,  and  the 
silken  strips  had  lisped  some  of  Han  Yu's  lilting  lines, 
about  "moonlight  flooding  the  inner  gallery,  where 
the  japonica  stammers  with  silvered  petals."  To- 


202  ALIEN  SOULS 

night  the  drift  of  his  mind  inclined  toward  the  philo 
sophical,  and  he  read  on  the  fluttering  streamers  three 
quotations  from  the  Kung-Yuan  Chang. 

The  first  was:  "Is  virtue  a  thing  remote?"  The 
second:  "I  wish  to  be  virtuous!"  The  third:  "Lo 
and  behold — virtue  is  at  hand !" 

He  loved  the  entrance  hall  of  the  house,  with  the 
floor  completely  hidden  under  a  shimmering  mass  of 
Kien-Lun  brocades  that  were  like  moon-beams  on  run 
ning  water,  and,  square  in  the  center,  an  ancient  Ming 
rug  of  imperial  yellow  stamped  with  black  bats  as  a 
sign  of  good  luck.  These,  with  the  three  small  tables 
of  ebony  and  dull-red  lacquer  supporting  an  incense 
burner,  an  ivory  vase  for  the  hot  wine,  and  a  squat, 
earthen  pot  filled  with  a  profusion  of  feathery  parrot- 
tulips  in  exotic  shades,  and,  in  the  far  corner,  a  huge, 
fantastic  tiger  in  old  crackle-glaze  porcelain — all  these, 
made  for  him  a  little  world  in  themselves. 

He  loved  the  stilted,  never-changing  ceremonial  of 
Pekinese  politeness  with  which  the  master  of  the  house 
— somehow,  because  of  the  whirling  clouds  of  poppy 
smoke  that  veiled  the  room,  he  had  never  been  able  to 
see  his  features  distinctly — greeted  him,  night  after 
night.  He  would  receive  his  caller  on  the  threshold, 
bowing  with  clasped  hands,  and  saying : 

"Please  deign  to  enter  first." 

Whereat  Yung  Han-Rai  would  bow  still  lower. 

"How  could  I  dare  to,  O  wise  and  older  brother?" 
he  would  retort,  sucking  in  his  breath,  and  quoting  an 
appropriate  line  from  the  Book  of  Ceremonies  and 
Exterior  Demonstrations,  which  proved  that  the  man 
ner  is  the  heart's  mirror. 

Then,  night  after  night,  after  another  request  by 
his  host,  he  himself  still  protesting  his  unworthiness, 


BLACK  POPPIES  203 

he  would  enter  as  he  was  bidden  and  be  asked  to 
"deign  to  choose  a  mat,"  on  the  west  side  of  the  room, 
as  a  special  mark  of  honor.  And  a  so  ft- footed  serv 
ant  in  a  crimson,  dragon-embroidered  tunic  and  a  cap 
with  a  turquoise  button  would  bring  two  jade  cups; 
cups  not  of  the  garish  green  iao  jade  which  foreign 
ers  like,  but  of  the  white  and  transparent  iu  jade  that 
the  rites  reserve  for  princes,  viceroys,  Manchus,  min 
isters,  and  distinguished  literati. 

He  himself  was  a  literatus. 

Had  he  not,  many  years  ago,  competing  against 
ninety-seven  picked  youths  from  all  the  provinces  of 
the  Middle  Kingdom,  passed  first  in  the  examination 
at  the  Palace  of  August  and  Happy  Education,  and 
obtained  the  eminent  degree  of  San  Tsoi?  Had  not 
the  Dowager  Empress,  in  person,  thereon  congrat 
ulated  him?  Had  not  his  mother  been  thanked  pub 
licly  for  having  given  birth  to  such  a  talented  son? 
And  his  prize  poem — was  it  not  being  quoted  to  this 
day  by  white-bearded  priests,  sipping  their  jasmine- 
flavored  tea  in  the  flaunting  gardens  of  Pekin's  Lama 
monastery? 

He  remembered  how  the  poem  began : 

"Day  reddens  in  the  wake  of  night, 
But  the  days  of  our  life  return  not. 
Sweet-scented  orchids  blot  out  the  path, 
But  they  die  in  the  drift  of  waters, 
And  their  flowers  are  blotted  out, 
But  their  perfume    .    .    ." 

Yes.  He  himself  was  a  literatus.  But  he  would 
again  protest  his  unworthiness. 

"I  shall  drink  if  you  wish  me  to,  O  wise  and  older 


204  ALIEN  SOULS 

brother,"  he  would  say.  "But  from  a  wooden  cup 
with  no  ornaments,"  he  would  add. 

And  then,  according  to  the  proper  rules  of  conduct 
prescribed  by  the  ancients,  the  master  of  the  house 
would  insist  three  times,  and  he  would  drink  the  hot, 
spiced  wine  from  the  jade  cup. 

It  was  so  to-night. 

He  entered,  exchanged  the  customary  Pekinese  civil 
ities,  sipped  his  cup  of  wine,  and  smiled  at  his  host 
who  smiled  back. 

"Will  you  smoke?"  asked  the  latter. 

"Gladly." 

"A  pipe  of  jade,  or  a  pipe  of  tortoise-shell  with  five 
yellow  tassels?" 

"Either  would  be  too  flattering  for  me.  Are  you 
not  my  brother,  very  wise  and  very  old?  And  am  I 
not  the  unworthy  and  very  little  one?  Let  me,  I  be 
seech  you,  smoke  my  old  bamboo." 

"Your  lips  will  endow  even  an  old  bamboo  with 
harmonious  beauty  far  more  precious  than  all  the 
precious  metals  of  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,"  his 
host  replied  courteously,  and  bowed. 

He  filled  both  pipes.  The  folds  of  smoke  joined 
over  the  lamp  whose  flame  was  hidden  by  a  filagree 
screen  of  butterflies  in  green  enamel. 

"The  opium  will  clear  the  clouds  from  our  brains," 
continued  the  master  of  the  house  slowly.  "It  will 
purify  our  judgments,  make  our  hearts  more  sensi 
tive  to  beauty,  and  take  away  the  tyrannical  sensa 
tions  of  actual  life — the  sources,  these,  of  all  vulgar 
mistakes.  Will  you  smoke  again  ?" 

"With  pleasure." 

Both  men  drew  in  the  acrid  fumes  with  all  the 
strength  of  their  lungs. 


BLACK  POPPIES  205 

Yung  Han-Rai  smiled  dreamily. 

"Did  not  Hoang  Ti,  the  Yellow  Emperor  himself, 
once  remark  that.  .  .  .  ?" 

The  sentence  died  unfinished  on  his  lips. 

They  smoked  in  silence  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 
The  room  was  filling  with  scented  fog.  Already  the 
objects  scattered  about  had  lost  their  outline,  and  the 
silken  stuffs  on  the  walls  and  the  floor  gleamed  less 
brilliantly. 

Yung  Han-Rai  felt  a  confused  sensation  of  the 
marrow  of  his  bones  and  his  muscles,  some  of  which 
seemed  to  soften  and  almost  to  melt  away,  while 
others  seemed  to  strengthen  and  grow  greatly,  while 
his  subconscious  brain  seemed  endowed  with  a  new 
and  intense  vitality.  He  no  longer  noticed  the  weight 
of  his  body  pressing  on  the  mat ;  rather  he  became  con 
scious  of  a  tremendous  intellectual  and  ethical  power. 

Hidden  things  became  clear  to  him.  The  soul  within 
his  soul  came  to  the  surface  with  a  flaming  rush  of 
speed.  He  felt  himself  part  of  nature — a  direct  ex 
pression  of  cosmic  life.  The  currents  of  the  earth 
pulsed  in  his  veins  with  a  puissant  and  mysterious 
rhythm. 

High  on  the  wall  he  saw  a  soft  glow.  It  was  an 
ancient  gilt-wood  statue  representing  Han  Chung-le, 
the  greatest  of  the  Taoist  immortals,  who  was  sup 
posed  to  have  found  the  elixir  of  life. 

Yung  Han-Rai  smiled  at  him  familiarly,  even 
slightly  ironically. 

After  all,  the  thought  came  to  him,  he  and  Han 
Chung-le  were  brothers,  immortal  both. 

He  smoked  again. 

The  poppy  tasted  sweet  as  summer  rain.    .    .    . 

After  a  lapse  of  time,  hours,  days,  weeks — he  knew 


206  ALIEN  SOULS 

not,  he  became  conscious  that  the  master  of  the  house 
was  addressing  him.  The  voice  was  soft,  like  the  far 
piping  of  a  reed. 

"I  have  considered  everything,"  the  voice  said.  "I 
have  thought  well.  I  have  thought  left  and  thought 
right.  There  exists  no  doubt  that  my  daughter,  the 
Plum  Blossom,  will  greatly  appreciate  your  many  and 
honorable  qualities.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  will  make 
you  a  delightful  wife.  Her  eyes  are  like  sunbeams 
filtering  their  gold  through  the  shadows  of  the  pine 
woods.  The  mating-songs  of  all  the  birds  are  echoed 
in  the  harmony  of  her  voice.  Too,  she  is  a  vessel  filled 
with  all  the  domestic  virtues.  She  is  strong  and  high- 
breasted.  She  will  bear  you  as  many  men-children  as 
there  are  hairs  in  my  queue." 

"Your  too-indulgent  lips  have  pronounced  words  full 
of  the  most  delicate  beauty,"  replied  Yung  Han-Rai. 
"Alas,  it  grieves  me,  but  I  cannot  accept.  I  am  the 
very  little  and  unimportant  one.  My  ancestry  is 
wretched,  my  manners  deplorable,  and  my  learning 
less  than  the  shadow  of  nothing  at  all.  The  honor 
would  be  too  great,  O  wise  and  older  brother." 

"It  is  my  own  justly  despised  family  which  will  be 
exquisitely  honored,"  replied  the  other,  rising,  and 
bowing  deeply  with  clasped  hands.  "Let  there — I 
humbly  implore  you — be  a  marriage  between  you  and 
the  Plum  Blossom.  You  will  make  an  excellent  son- 
in-law,  virtuous,  learned,  a  respecter  of  the  ancient 
traditions  of  Ming  and  Sung." 

Yung  Han-Rai  was  about  to  speak,  to  protest  once 
more,  as  the  proper  ceremonial  demanded,  his  utter 
unworthiness.  His  lips  had  already  formed  the  care 
fully  chosen  words  when,  very  suddenly,  he  was 
silent.  He  became  nervous,  uneasy,  frightened.  Cold 


BLACK  POPPIES  207 

beads  of  perspiration  trickled  slowly  down  his  nose. 

He  bent  forward;  listened. 

That  noise.    What  was  it? 

Something  from  the  outside  world,  the  unreal  world 
of  facts,  seemed  to  brush  in  on  unclean,  sardonic 
wings,  to  disturb  the  perfect  peace  of  the  house,  to 
break  and  shiver  the  poppy-heavy  air. 

Cries  of  the  street,  in  an  uncouth,  foreign  language : 

"Yer  gotta  travel  the  straight  an'  narrow  if  yer 
want  me  t'  stick  t'  yer,  get  me  ?" 

"Gee,  kid!  Listen  t'  me!  I  ain't  never  spoke  a 
woid  to  th'  guy,  I  tells  yer  honest !" 

"Well— looka  here.  .  .  ." 

The  voices  drifted  away.  Came  other  noises.  The 
hooting  of  the  Elevated,  around  the  corner  on  Chatham 
Square.  The  steely  roar  of  a  motor  exhaust. 

Motor?    Elevated?    Chatham  Square? 

What  was  it,  Yung  asked  himself?  What  did  the 
words  signify? 

Streets — noises — foreigners — coarse-haired  barbar 
ians.  .  .  . 

No,  no — by  the  Excellent  Lord  Buddha ! 

They  were  only  the  figments  of  his  dreams;  dt earns 
which  he  had  often,  day  after  day;  dreams  which  he 
hated  and  feared — 

Dreams  which  he  must  kill ! 

With  shaking  fingers  he  reached  for  the  opium  jar. 
He  kneaded  the  brown  cube.  He  roasted  it,  filled  his 
pipe,  and  smoked. 

And,  at  once,  the  poppy  ghosts  drew  swiftly  down 
about  him  on  silver-gray  wings,  building  around  him 
a  wall  of  fragant,  gossamer  clouds,  suffusing  the  soul 
within  his  soul  with  the  wild  loveliness  of  a  forgotten 
existence. 


208  ALIEN  SOULS 

With  a  wealth  of  deep,  radiant  conviction,  this 
former  existence,  blending  with  his  life  of  might-have- 
been,  poured  into  his  brain.  His  brain  inflamed  his 
heart.  His  thoughts  softened;  they  trembled  like  a 
wavering  line  of  music  in  a  night-blue  wind  of  spring. 
The  fringe  of  his  inner  consciousness  stretched  far 
and  out,  away  to  the  stars  and  the  high  winds,  into 
a  great  and  sweet  freedom. 

He  smoked  again. 

He  became  conscious  of  something  like  a  rain  of 
summer  flowers.  The  feet  of  his  soul  were  walking 
down  the  path  of  some  tremendous,  dazzling  verity. 
The  facts  of  the  outer  world  touched  him  no  longer 
with  their  hard,  cutting  edges.  These  facts  were  un 
true  ;  they  were  not ;  they  were  only  the  lying  thoughts 
of  the  lying,  lesser  gods. 

The  poppy  fumes  whirled  up,  wreathing  everything 
in  floating  vapors.  They  darkened  the  air  with  a 
solid,  bloating  shadow.  The  room  disappeared.  Dis 
appeared  his  host. 

He  saw  again  the  outside  of  the  house,  the  tilted, 
pagoda  roof  shimmering  like  a  gigantic  peacock;  saw 
again  the  three  violet  lanterns  above  the  door. 

He  was  now  walking  away  from  the  house,  but  he 
turned  and  saw  that  the  inscriptions  on  the  three  flut 
tering  streamers  had  changed  once  more. 

The  first  read:  "Love — like  moon-born  clouds 
casting  their  tremulous  shadows  over  stairs  of  rose- 
red  jade !"  The  second :  "Love — like  little  ghosts  of 
May-time  ruffling  the  river  of  heart's  desire!"  The 
third:  "Love — like  a  hidden  lute  softly  lilting  be 
hind  a  silken  alcove !" 

So  he  strolled  away,  beneath  a  vaulted  night,  subtly 
perfumed,  secret,  mystical,  netted  in  delicate  silver 


BLACK  POPPIES  209 

mist,  and  the  soft  starlight  drifting  down  through 
budding  boughs  into  budding  earth,  and  the  dreams 
in  his  soul  moving  thick  and  soft  ahead  of  him;  and 
he  felt,  deep  within  him,  as  the  Lord  Gautama  Buddha 
must  have  felt  on  the  day  of  creation,  when  his  golden 
smile  first  dawned  on  chaos  and  the  love  in  his  heart 
released  the  forces  of  nature. 

And  the  opium  clouds  drove  the  night  to  the  west, 
and  the  broad,  level  wedge  of  day  streamed  out  of 
the  east;  and  the  strength  of  the  young  sun  came, 
stemming  the  morning  mists. 

The  air  was  a  rapidly  whirling  wheel  of  gleaming 
dust,  shedding  crimson  and  purple  sparks;  a  brook 
went  gurgling  past,  sparkling  like  a  flow  of  emeralds, 
there  was  a  staccato  breeze  flickering  over  the  sun- 
spotted  fields  like  the  wind  of  a  Manchu  lady's  gaily- 
flirted  fan;  and  the  voice  of  his  heart's  desire  whis 
pered  through  the  green  roll  of  creation,  and  he  saw, 
etched  against  the  distance,  the  Pavilion  of  Exquisite 
Love  that  rose  slowly  from  a  garden  of  great  black 
poppies,  curved  fantastically  into  an  upper  story 
framed  by  balconies,  then  raced  away  with  spires  and 
turrets  and  tinkling  silver  bells  to  a  bright,  pigeon- 
blue  sky. 

So  he  smoked  again. 

The  fragrant  fumes  of  his  pipe,  with  the  light  of 
the  lamp  playing  upon  them,  laid  a  shining  ribbon  of 
gold  from  his  heart  to  the  pavilion. 

His  feet  stepped  softly  upon  it.  He  reached  the 
pavilion,  and  entered. 

The  Plum  Blossom  was  sitting  erect  on  a  chair  of 
ebony  and  lacquer  encrusted  with  rose-quartz,  and  the 
sweep  of  his  heart's  desire  came  down  upon  Yung 
Han-Rai  like  a  gentle,  silvered  miracle. 


210  ALIEN  SOULS 

"Hayah !  my  bridegroom !"  she  said,  rising,  and  bow 
ing  low. 

"Hayah !  my  bride !"  he  replied,  and  kowtowed  three 
times. 

He  trembled  a  little.  In  his  blood  he  felt  pulsing 
the  whole  earth  with  her  myriad  expressions  of  life 
and  the  making  of  life,  as  if  dancing  to  the  primal 
rhythm  of  all  creation. 

He  looked  at  her. 

He  saw  her  very  clearly.  The  poppy  smoke  had 
faded  into  memory. 

Her  face  was  like  a  tiny,  ivory  flower,  beneath  the 
great  wedding-crown  of  paper-thin  gold  leaves,  with 
emeralds  like  drops  of  frozen  green  fire,  with  carved 
balls  of  moonstone  swinging  from  the  lobes  of  her 
ears.  The  finger  nails  of  her  right  hand  were  very 
long,  and  encased  by  pointed  filagrees  of  lapis  lazuli 
studded  with  seed  pearls. 

She  wore  a  long  gown,  that  was  like  a  current  of 
glossy  silver,  embroidered  with  trailing  powder-blue 
clouds  and  peach  blossoms  and,  along  the  bottom  of 
the  skirt,  a  golden  dragon  in  whose  head  shimmered 
the  seven  mystic  jewels.  The  jacket,  with  its  loose 
sleeves  of  plum-color  encircled  by  bands  of  coral  lotus 
buds,  was  tight  and  short,  of  apple-green  satin  em 
broidered  with  sprays  of  yulan  magnolias  and  guelder 
roses,  loped  with  fretted  buttons  of  white  jade;  while 
her  slippers  were  of  porcelain,  of  the  one  called  Ting- 
yao,  which  is  fifth  in  rank  among  all  perfect  porcelains, 
thin  as  a  paper  of  rice,  fragile  as  the  wings  of  the 
silk-moth,  melodious  as  the  stone  khing  when  gently 
struck  by  a  soft  hand,  violet  as  a  summer's  night 
and  with  an  over-glaze  like  the  amber  bloom  of 
grapes. 


BLACK  POPPIES  211 

Again  he  kowtowed. 

She  was  very  close  to  him.  Nothing  separated  them 
except  the  delicate  threshold  between  dream  and  fact. 
Beyond  that  threshold  there  was  peace,  there  was  love, 
there  was  the  eternal  thrill  of  fulfillment,  there  was  an 
end  of  those  yearnings,  of  the  loneliness  and  the  pains 
of  actual  life  that  had  bruised  his  soul  these  many 
years. 

So  he  smoked  again.  He  enveloped  himself  in  a 
thick,  strongly-scented  poppy  cloud,  and  he  stepped  a 
little  beyond  the  threshold,  and  knelt  at  her  feet. 

"I  love  you,  Plum  Blossom,"  he  said.  "I  love  you, 
O  very  small  Blossom  of  the  Plum  Tree!" — and  he 
reached  for  the  kin,  the  Chinese  lute,  which  was  at 
her  elbow  on  a  pillow  of  yellow  satin  embrodiered  with 
an  iridescent  rain  of  pearls. 

His  fingers  caressed  the  instrument.  They  brushed 
over  the  cords. 

The  ancient  Tartar  melody  winged  up  in  minor, 
wailing  harmonies,  like  the  fluting  of  long-limbed  rice 
birds  flying  against  the  dead-gold  of  the  autumn  sky; 
and  he  sang: 

"I  love  you.  You  are  in  my  heart.  You  are  in 
my  soul.  You  are  in  the  soul  within  my  soul,  where 
the  world  has  not  been  spotted  by  dirt  and  lies,  but 
is  pure  as  the  laughter  of  little  children;  where  there 
are  no  fetters  of  the  flesh  nor  galls  of  earthly  restraint ; 
where  the  winds  roam  in  the  pathless  skies  of  outer 
creation,  with  none  but  the  Buddha's  will  to  check 
their  vagabond  waywardness.  .  .  ." 

Gently  his  fingers  trembled  across  the  strings  of 
the  lute.  The  accompaniment  rippled  in  white  tone- 
waves,  silver-flecked;  it  quivered  on  a  high  note, 
spreading  a  network  of  infinitely  delicate  tone  fila- 


212  ALIEN  SOULS 

ments,  then  brushed  out  with  an  abandon  of  throbbing 
cadences,  like  tiny,  drifting  ghosts  of  spring  tinkling 
their  girdle  gems  of  fretted  jade. 

"I  love  you,"  he  sang.  "Daily  my  love  for  you 
echoes  through  the  vaulted  halls  of  my  dreams,  my 
life;  echoes  in  smiles  and  tears  and  hopes  of  fulfill 
ment.  Daily  the  thought  of  you  comes  to  me  with 
flute  songs  and  flowers.  Daily  I  launch  the  boat  of 
my  desire  on  the  lilied  pond  of  your  soul.  Daily  I  seek 
you  in  the  whirling  smoke  of  the  poppies.  .  .  ." 

He  paused. 

Skillfully,  between  thumb  and  second  finger,  he 
twanged  the  third  string.  The  note  trembled  as  on 
the  brink  of  an  abyss.  It  sobbed  like  a  flame  in  the 
meeting  of  winds.  Then  it  blew  clear  into  a  high 
rush  of  ecstasy,  and  he  sang  again: 

"Daily  I  have  sought  you  in  the  whirling  smoke  of 
the  poppies.  Hayah,  my  bride!  And  to-day  I  have 
found  you — found  you." 

Again  he  paused. 

An  overpowering  desire  tore  across  him  burningly. 
In  a  back  cell  of  his  brain,  he  caught  the  whispered 
fragment  of  some  enormous  truth ;  saw,  with  the  eyes 
of  his  body,  the  opium  fumes  pointing  with  dreamy, 
blue  fingers;  saw,  with  the  eyes  of  his  soul,  the  Plum 
Blossom's  starry  little  face. 

"To-day  I  have  found  you,"  he  sang;  and  again 
he  twanged  the  third  cord  between  thumb  and  second 
finger. 

It  trembled.  The  clear  note  rose,  then  broke  a 
little.  And  he  bent  over  the  lute  and  pulled  the  cord 
taut. 

It  sobbed  protestingly.  There  was  a  tiny  snap. 
Then,  suddenly,  the  cord  broke,  with  a  jarring  ring. 


BLACK  POPPIES  213 

"Today  I  have  found  you,"  he  sang;  and  his  voice 
broke;  vanished  in  the  whirling  fog  of  the  poppies. 

He  felt  a  curious,  sweet  pain.  An  immense  shutter 
seemed  to  drop  across  his  mind  with  a  speed  of  light 
ning.  There  was  a  momentary  break  in  his  conscious 
ness,  a  sense  of  vague,  yet  abrupt  dislocation,  of  in 
finite,  rather  helpless  regret,  and  the  door  opened — 

"Looka  here,  yer  darned  Chink  hop-head!"  came  a 
rough  voice. 

Bill  Devoy,  detective  of  Second  Branch  and  on  the 
Pell  Street  beat  of  sewer  gas  and  opium  and  yellow 
man  and  white,  stepped  inside.  He  sniffed,  turned 
up  the  gas  jet,  then  crossed  to  the  window  and  opened 
it  wide. 

"Gosh!    Wot  a  smell!" 

He  looked  about  the  room,  dusty,  grimy,  bare  of 
all  furnishings  except  the  narrow,  wooden  bunk  where 
Yung  Han-Rai  lay  stretched  out,  the  bamboo  pipe  in 
his  stiff  fingers,  and  the  small  taboret  with  the  smoker's 
paraphernalia  which  stood  beside  the  bunk. 

He  touched  the  Chinese  on  the  shoulder  with  his 
heavy  hand. 

"Looka  here,  Yung,"  he  said.  "I  don't  wanta  pinch 
yer.  Ye're  a  decent  lad.  I'm  only  gonna  talk  t'  yer 
like  a  Dutch  uncle,  see  ?  Yer  gotta  cut  out  the  poppy, 
get  me?  Wottahell!  Look  at  yerself !  Look  at  this 
room !  Doity  and  grimy,  and  not  a  stick  o'  furniture ! 
Ain't  yer  ashamed  o'  yerself  ?  Wottya  mean — soakin' 
yerself  in  th'  black  smoke  every  night,  wastin'  every 
cent  yer  earn  on  hop?  Ain't  yer  got  no  sense  at  all, 
yer  poor  Chink?  And  they  tells  me  yer  useter  be  a 
gent,  back  home  in  Chinkieland — a  real  gent,  eddy- 
cated  and  of  a  swell  family !  Wottya  mean,  yer  poor, 
weak-spined  fish?" 


2i4  ALIEN  SOULS 

Again  he  touched  the  other  on  the  shoulder.  He 
bent  down  a  little  more  closely.  Then  a  hush  came 
into  his  voice,  as  he  saw  the  wistful  smile  on  the 
yellow,  wrinkled  old  face  of  the  dead  man. 

"Gee!"  he  whispered.    "Oh,  Gee!" 


THE  PERFECT  WAY 

HERE,  where  Pell  Street  jutted  out  from  the  Bowery, 
there  was  not  even  a  trace  of  the  patina  of  antiquity, 
that  bitter  and  morose  grace  which  clings  about  old 
houses  like  the  ghosts  of  dead  flowers.  There  was 
nothing  here  except  the  marks  of  the  present — hard, 
gray,  scabbed,  already  rotting  before  having  lived 
overmuch. 

The  noises  of  the  street  seethed  in  frothy,  brutal 
streaks :  the  snarling  whine  of  Russian  Jews  barter 
ing  over  infinitesimal  values;  the  high,  clipped  tenor 
of  metallic,  Italian  vernaculars;  the  gliding  sing-song 
of  Chinese  coolies;  and  only  occasionally  an  English 
word,  sharp  and  lonely  and  nostalgic.  There  was  the 
rumbling  overtone  of  the  Elevated  around  the  corner 
on  Chatham  Square;  the  sardonic  hooting  of  a  four- 
ton  motor  dray;  the  ineffectual  tinkle-tinkle  of  a  ped 
dler's  bell.  Rain  came  and  joined  in  the  symphony; 
spluttering  in  the  leaky  eaves-troughs,  dripping  through 
the  huddled,  greasy  alleys,  mumbling  angrily  in  the 
brown,  clogged  gutters. 

And  Yu  Ching  sat  there  by  the  window  and  stared 
with  cold,  black  eyes  into  the  cold,  wet  evening,  neither 
seeing  nor  hearing.  Behind  him  shadows  coiled, 
blotchy,  inchoate,  purplish-black,  with  just  a  fitful 
dancing  of  elfin  high-lights  on  a  teakwood  screen, 
its  tight,  lemon  silk  embroidered  with  japonica,  flut 
tering  their  silvered  petals,  and  on  a  small  crystal 

215 


216  ALIEN  SOULS 

statue  of  Confucius  that  squatted  amid  the  smoking 
incense  sticks. 

The  corner  lamp  flared  up,  mean  and  yellow.  The 
light  stabbed  in  and  mirrored  on  the  finger-nails  of  his 
pudgy  right  hand.  The  hand  was  very  still.  Still  was 
the  man's  face — large,  hairless,  butter-colored. 

The  rain  spluttered  and  stammered.  The  street 
cries  belched  defiantly.  The  peace  in  Yu  Ching's  heart 
was  perfect,  exquisite. 

Momentarily,  there  came  to  him  fleeting  memories 
of  the  days  when  his  own  life,  too,  had  been  an  in 
tegral  and  not  unimportant  part  of  that  cosmic  Pell 
Street  energy,  when  he  had  been  a  shrewd  and  re 
spected  merchant,  who  had  contributed  his  share  of 
wisdom  and  gossip  to  the  evening  gatherings  of  his 
countrymen  in  the  liquor  store  of  the  Chin  Sor  Com 
pany — the  "Place  of  Sweet  Desire  and  Heavenly  En 
tertainment." 

Came  memories  of  his  wife,  Marie  Na  Liu,  sweet 
with  lissom,  unformed  sweetness  of  sixteen  years, 
tiny  and  soft  and  high-breasted,  with  the  golden  hair 
of  a  Danish  mother  and  the  creamy,  waxen  skin,  the 
sloe-black  eyes  of  a  Chinese  father. 

Across  the  poetry  of  her  youth  had  lain  the  stony 
drag  and  smother,  the  subtle  violence,  the  perfumed 
dirt  of  the  bastard  Pell  Street  world.  She  had  been 
like  a  rainbow  bubble  floating  on  the  stinking  puddles 
of  Chinatown  vice.  But  he  had  loved  her  dearly. 
His  love  for  her  had  burned  away  the  caked,  black 
cinders,  the  dross  and  the  dirt. 

Her  love  for  him — ?  There  were  classic,  scholarly 
traditions  in  his  clan ;  one  of  his  ancestors  had  been  a 
poet  of  no  mean  repute  in  the  days  of  the  Ta  Tsing 


THE  PERFECT  WAY  217 

Kwoh,  the  "Great-Pure  Kingdom" ;  and  so  Yu  Ching 
had  compared  Marie  Na  Liu's  love  to  a  dewdrop  on  a 
willow  spray,  a  flaunting  of  fairy  pennons,  and  the 
sound  of  a  silver  bell  in  the  green  mists  of  twilight — 
smiling,  with  kindly  intent,  at  the  last  simile;  for  he 
had  been  forty-seven  years  of  age  and  she  sixteen 
when  he  had  married  her,  quite  respectably,  with  a 
narrow  gold  ring,  a  bouquet  of  cabbagy,  wired  roses, 
a  proper,  monumental  wedding  cake,  a  slightly  shocked 
Baptist  clergyman  mumbling  the  words  of  the  blessed 
ritual,  and  at  the  organ  a  yellow,  half-caste  boy  in 
troducing  wailing  Cantonese  dissonances  into  the 
"Voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden." 

Down  at  the  "Place  of  Sweet  Desire  and  Heavenly 
Entertainment,"  the  comment  had  been  brutally  un 
flattering. 

"You  are  old,  and  she  is  young!"  had  said  Nag 
Hong  Fah,  the  paunchy  restaurant  proprietor,  flutter 
ing  his  paper  fan.  "Hay ah!  On  the  egg  combating 
with  the  stone,  the  yolk  came  out,  O  wise  and  older 
brother!" 

"The  ass  went  seeking  for  horns — and  lost  its  ears !" 
Yung  Lung,  the  wholesale  grocer,  had  darkly  sug 
gested. 

And  Yu  Ch'ang,  the  priest  of  the  joss  temple,  had 
added  with  pontifical  unction : 

"When  I  see  the  sun  and  the  moon  delivered  up 
by  the  eclipse  to  the  hands  of  the  demons;  when  I 
perceive  the  bonds  that  fasten  an  elephant;  and  when 
I  behold  a  wise  man  surrendering — ah — to  the  fool 
ish  abominations  of  the  flesh,  the  thought  forces 
itself  upon  me:  'How  mighty  is  the  power  of 
evil!'" 

Thus,  at  the  time  of  their  marriage,  had  run  the 


218  ALIEN  SOULS 

gliding,  malicious  gossip  of  Chinatown.  But  when, 
quite  casually,  Yu  Ching  had  repeated  it  to  his  wife, 
who  was  busying  herself  amongst  the  cook  pots  of 
their  neat  little  Pell  Street  flat,  she  had  given  him  a 
rapid  kiss. 

"You  sh'd  worry,  yer  fat  old  sweetness!"  she  had 
laughed.     "Them  Chinks  is  just  plain  jealous.     You 
treat  me  on  th'  level — and  I'll  retoin  the  compliment, 
see?    Besides,  I'm  stuck  on  yer  snoozly  old  phiz!    I 
ain't  goin'  t' waste  no  time  huntin'  for  thrills,  as  long 
as  ye're  true  to  me !    I'm  a  good  Christian — I  am — " 
"And  I  am  a  good  Buddhist,  Plum  Blossom !" 
"Hell's  bells — wot's  the  difference,  sweetness?" 

They  had  been  happy.  And  to-day  he  had  forgotten 
her.  He  had  completely  forgotten  her;  and  he  knew 
— subconsciously,  for  he  never  reflected  on  the  subject 
— that  she  had  been  faithful  to  him ;  that  never,  either 
by  word  or  deed,  had  she  caused  him  to  lose  faith; 
that  she  had  lived  up,  straight  and  clean,  to  the  words 
of  the  ritual :  love,  honor,  obey. 

He  knew — subconsciously — that  he  had  broken  her 
heart  when  he  walked  out  of  her  life,  three  years  ago. 

Very  impersonally,  he  wondered  what  had  become 
of  her.  Then  he  cut  off  the  wondering  thought.  He 
smiled.  He  said  to  himself  that  she,  too,  had  been 
an  illusion,  a  mirroring  of  shadows  in  the  dun  dusk 
of  his  soul. 

She  did  not  matter. 

Why — he  put  his  fingers  together,  delicately,  tip 
against  tip — nothing  mattered.  .  .  . 

Outside,  more  lights  sprang  up  against  the  violet 
of  the  sky,  spotting  the  gloom.  The  noises  grew  as, 


THE  PERFECT  WAY  219 

with  night,  grew  and  heaved  the  dark-smoldering 
passions  of  the  city.  A  pint  pocket  flask  dropped, 
smashed  against  a  stone.  A  foul  curse  was  answered 
by  throaty,  malign  laughter.  Came  the  tail-end  of  a 
gutter  song;  a  shouted,  obscene  joke,  old  already  when 
the  world  was  young;  more  curses  and  laughter;  a 
sailor's  sodden,  maudlin  mouthings;  a  woman's  gur 
gling  contralto: 

"Aw — chase  yerself !    Wottya  mean,  yer  big  stiff  ?" 

The  drama  of  the  city.  The  comedy.  The  vital, 
writhing  entrails.  Life,  clouting,  breathing,  fighting 
eternally. 

But  Yu  Ching  did  not  see,  nor  hear.  His  heart 
was  as  pure  as  the  laughter  of  little  children,  as  pure 
as  a  gong  of  white  jade.  There  was  hardly  a  trace  of 
the  outer  world,  dimly,  on  the  rim  of  his  conscious 
ness. 

His  soul  had  reached  the  end  of  its  pilgrimage. 
Calm,  serene,  passionless  like  the  Buddha,  it  sat  en 
throned  beyond  the  good  and  the  evil. 

"All  forms  are  only  temporary!" — there  was  the 
one  great  truth. 

He  smiled.  Mechanically,  his  thin  lips  formed  the 
words  of  the  Buddha's  Twenty-Third  Admonition : 

"Of  all  attachments  unto  objects  of  desire,  the 
strongest  is  the  attachment  to  form.  He  who  cannot 
overcome  this  desire,  for  him  to  enter  the  Perfect 
Way  of  Salvation  is  impossible.  .  .  ." 

The  rain  had  ceased.  A  great  slow  wind  walked 
braggingly  through  the  skies.  The  Elevated,  a  block 
away,  rushed  like  the  surge  of  the  sea.  The  Bowery 
leered  up  with  a  mawkish,  tawdry  face. 

The  noises  of  the  street  blended  and  clashed,  blended 
and  clashed.  A  thousand  people  came  and  went,  people 


220  ALIEN  SOULS 

of  all  races,  all  faiths — gulping  down  life  in  greedy 
mouthfuls. 

And  still  the  peace  in  Yu  Ching's  heart  was  perfect 
and  exquisite.  Still  he  smiled.  Still,  mechanically, 
his  lips  mumbled  the  words  of  the  Buddha : 

"By  day  shineth  the  sun.  By  night  shineth  the 
moon.  Shineth  also  the  warrior  in  harness  of  war. 
But  the  Buddha,  at  all  times  by  day  and  by  night, 
shineth  ever  the  same,  illuminating  the  world,  calm, 
passionless,  serene — " 

The  end  of  his  soul's  pilgrimage.  .  .  . 

And  presently — to-day,  to-morrow,  next  year,  ten 
years  from  now — his  body  would  die,  and  his  spirit 
would  leap  the  dragon  gate,  would  blend  its  secret  es 
sence  with  the  eternal  essence  of  the  Buddha's  soul. 
.  .  .  And  what  else  mattered? 

He  bent  his  head. 

"Fire  and  night  and  day  art  Thou,"  he  whispered, 
"and  the  fortnight  of  waxing  moon — and  the  months 
of  the  sun's  northern  circuit — " 

The  end  of  his  pilgrimage ! 

And  the  beginning  had  been  hard.  For  he  had 
loved  Marie  Na  Liu.  He  had  not  wanted  to  harm  her. 

But  the  Voice  had  spoken  to  him  in  the  night,  ask 
ing  him  to  arise  and  throw  off  the  shackles  of  desire, 
the  fetters  of  the  flesh ;  to  forget  the  illusions ;  telling 
him  that,  whatever  meritorious  results  might  be  at 
tained  by  prayers  and  sacrifices,  by  austerities  and 
gifts,  there  was  no  sacrifice  to  be  compared  with  that 
of  a  man's  own  heart.  Such  a  sacrifice  was  the  excel 
lent  sanctifier — exhaustless  in  result. 

"Sure,"  had  said  Bill  Devoy,  a  detective  of  Second 
Branch  and  detailed  to  the  Pell  Street  beat  of  opium 
and  sewer  gas  and  yellow  man  and  white;  he  had 


THE  PERFECT  WAY  221 

caught  on  to  the  gossip  in  the  course  of  a  murder  in 
vestigation  that  had  nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with  the 
pilgrimage  of  Yu  Ching's  soul — "that  Chink's  got  re 
ligion — wot  he  calls  religion.  I  don't  know  if  a  yaller 
Billy  Sunday's  come  down  to  Pell  and  Mott,  but  I 
do  know  as  that  there  Yu  Ching's  hittin'  the  trail  to 
salvation — as  them  Chinks  hit  it — sittin'  all  day  like 
a  bump  on  a  log,  just  smilin',  and  never  sayin'  a  damn 
word.  Meditatin'  they  calls  it.  Gee!  He  gives  me 
the  creeps,  he  does — " 

At  first,  Marie  Na  Liu  had  laughed. 

"Say — wottya  mean,  sweetness?"  she  had  asked. 
"Leave  me?  Coin'  t'leave — me?"  Then  her  voice  had 
risen  a  hectic  octave.  "Is  there  another  skoit?  For  if 
there  is — say — " 

"No,  Plum  Blossom.  There  is  no  other  woman — 
never  will  be.  Woman  is  an  illusion — " 

"Wottya  handin'  me?" 

"The  flesh  is  an  illusion.  There  is  just  my  soul — 
the  Buddha  has  spoken  to  me  in  the  night — " 

"You've  been  eatin'  Welsh  rabbit  again — down  to 
the  Dutchman's !  You  know  it  never  agrees  with  yer !" 

"No,  no!" 

He  had  smiled,  gently  and  patiently.  Gently  and 
patiently,  he  had  tried  to  explain  to  her,  had  tried  to 
make  her  understand. 

"But — sweetness — listen  t'me!  Yer  can't  leave  me 
—oh,  yer  can't.  .  .  ." 

She  had  argued,  cajoled,  threatened.  But  nothing 
she  could  say  had  made  any  impression  on  him.  It  had 
seemed  to  her,  suddenly,  as  if  she  had  never  really 
known  this  man ;  this  man  with  whom  she  had  lived  in 
the  close  physical  and  mental  intimacy  of  married  life 
in  a  little,  box-like  flat.  She  had  felt — looking  at  him, 


222  ALIEN  SOULS 

serene,  passionless,  calnu — as  if  an  alien  life,  an  alien 
existence,  was  enfolding  him;  enfolding  him  away 
from  her,  in  an  incomprehensible  and  tmhuman  quie 
tude. 

He  had  seemed  to  her  far  away — so  far  away — and 
her  narrow,  white  hands  had  stretched  out.  helplessly, 
appealingly;  had  touched  the  crinkly,  dark-blue  silk  of 
his  blouse. 

"Aw — come  on,  sweetness" 

Again  he  had  tried  to  explain;  and,  finally,  while 
she  had  not  seen  the  tremendous  and  elemental  force, 
ancient  and  racial,  that  was  driving  him  on  to  his 
decision,  she  had  understood  the  result. 

He  was  going  to  leave  her!  Yu  Ching,  her  man, 
was  going  to  leave  her ! 

"Aw— Gee!" 

She  had  cursed.  Then  her  gutter  flow  of  words 
had  floundered  in  the  eddy  of  her  hurt  love  and  pride 
and  vanity,  her  sheer  amazement. 

"Ye' re  goin'  to — ?     Ye' re  really,  rtally  goin'  to — ?" 

"I  must.  The  Buddha  has  spoken  to  me.  I  must 
break  the  shackles  of  the  flesh,  the  ropes  of  illusion — 
ahee! — the  ropes  of  sand!  It  is  a  most  meritorious 
act." 

"Meritorious,  is  it  ?"  Swiftly  her  passion  had  turned 
into  an  icy  sneer.  "Meritorious,  is  it — to  break  a 
goil's  heart?  To  trample  on  her — and  spit  on  her — 
to—?" 

He  had  sighed,  a  little  wearily. 

"I  shall  leave  you  suitably  provided  for.  I  shall 
only  take  along  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars.  All  the 
rest  is  yours — the  money — the  business — everything." 

"Money?  Business?  Who  cares?"  She  had  come 
close  to  him,  smiling  up  at  him,  piteously,  with  her 


THE  PERFECT  WAY  223 

broad,  crimson,  generous  mouth,  the  black,  somber 
orbit  of  her  eyes  dimmed  with  tears.  "I  don't  want 
money!  I  want  you,  sweetness!  You,  you,  you! 
Aw — Gee — don't  yer  see?" 

But  he  had  not  moved;  had  patiently  continued 
smiling.  And  then  she  had  understood  that  she  might 
as  well  plead  with  some  immense  and  stony  sending 
of  fate,  and  her  passion  had  leaped  out  in  a  splatter 
ing  stream  of  abuse: 

"Yer  damned  Chink!  Ye'll  pay  fer  this — say — 
ye'll  pay  fer  this  some  day!  Aw — yer  damned,  yaller 
hop-head  of  a  Chink!" 

She  had  laughed  hysterically,  her  soft  little  oval  of 
a  face  twisted  into  a  terrible  grimace. 

"I  hate  yer!  I  despise  yer!  Clear  outa  here!  I 
don't  wanta  ever  see  yer  ugly  mug  again !  Clear  out ! 
I  hate  yer — yer  damned,  fat  Chink!" 

And  so  he  had  left  her. 

So  he  had  left  Pell  Street,  its  warm,  tame  conven 
iences,  its  pleasant,  snug  reek,  its  zest  and  tang  of 
shrewd  barter  and  shrewd  gossip,  his  friends,  his  Tong, 
his  life  as  he  had  known  it  and  savored  it  these  many 
years. 

So  he  had  gone  on  pilgrimage,  seeking  for  release 
from  illusion,  from  attachment  to  objects  of  desire, 
seeking  the  Buddha's  Perfect  Way,  wandering  here  and 
there,  even  returning  to  China  where  he  made  the 
sengaji  circuit  of  the  thousand  and  three  blessed 
shrines. 

In  lonely  wayside  temples  he  had  sat,  talking  to 
gentle  priests  about  the  faith  and  the  hope  that  were 
his,  thinking  ever  of  release  from  fleshly  bondage,  turn 
ing  his  eyes  toward  the  mazed  depths  of  his  soul,  and 
meditating  on  the  mysterious  way  which  is  Life.  And 


224  ALIEN  SOULS 

when  at  times  the  air  had  been  heavy  with  the  musk 
of  remembrance  and  regret,  of  passion  and  longing, 
when  his  subconscious  fancy  had  peopled  his  brain  cells 
with  pictures  of  his  former  existence — Pell  Street,  his 
friends  sipping  their  tea  and  smoking  their  crimson- 
tasseled  pipes  in  the  "Place  of  Sweet  Desire  and  Heav 
enly  Entertainment,"  Marie  Na  Liu,  her  white  smile 
flashing  through  the  purple  night — he  had  done  pen 
ance,  submitting  to  the  supreme  physical  ordeals,  grad 
ually  subduing  his  body  and  his  mind. 

Thus,  finally,  he  had  found  peace,  perfect,  exquisite ; 
and  then  somehow,  he  never  knew  why  or  how — "that, 
too,  was  Fate,"  he  used  to  say  afterwards,  "I  but  fol 
lowed  the  way  of  my  Fate.  Who  can  avoid  what  is 
written  on  the  forehead  in  the  hour  of  birth?" — he 
had  returned  to  New  York,  and  so  he  sat  there  by 
the  window  and  looked  out  upon  the  shrill  Babel  of 
the  Pell  Street  night — calm,  serene,  passionless. 

Just  below  the  window,  an  elderly  Chinese  was  ar 
guing  with  a  countryman,  quoting  the  polished  and 
curiously  insincere  phrases  of  Mandarin  sages,  in  a 
stammering  falsetto: 

"Pa  nien  jou  chi — i  tien  jou  ki — " 

A  policeman  whistled  shrilly.  A  barrel-organ 
creaked  a  nostalgic,  Sicilian  melody.  .  .  . 

Yu  Ching  neither  saw  nor  heard. 

These  people — what  did  they  matter?  They  were 
only  cosmic  atoms  whirling  aimlessly  in  the  wind  of 
desire,  like  formless  swarming  snatches  of  dreams. 
No !  Nothing  mattered,  nothing  was  real,  except  the 
soul. 

He  smiled,  and  whispered  praises  to  the  Buddha, 
and  then,  suddenly,  yet  imperceptibly,  like  the  shadow 
of  a  leaf  through  summer  dusk,  he  felt  that  he  was  not 


THE  PERFECT  WAY  225 

alone  in  the  room,  that  eyes  were  staring  at  him. 

He  turned,  just  a  little  startled. 

The  door  was  open. 

From  the  fluttering  gas  jet  in  the  outer  hall,  a  wedge 
of  light  streamed  in.  Sharply  outlined  in  its  bluish- 
green  rays,  Marie  Na  Liu  stood  there,  her  face  pale 
and  drawn.  She  stood  silent  and  motionless,  but  as 
though  charged  with  some  kind  of  elemental  force 
that  was  inexhaustible. 

Yu  Ching  twisted  in  his  chair.  For  a  moment,  some 
thing  reached  out  and  touched  his  soul,  leaving  the 
chill  of  an  indescribable  uneasiness.  For  a  moment, 
he  thought  of  his  former  life;  thought  of  it  in  terms 
of  a  new  life,  a  future  life ;  it  opened  before  him,  hold 
ing  immense  and  measureless  perspectives. 

Then,  with  slow  deliberation,  he  turned  his  back 
upon  his  wife. 

"O  Buddha!"  he  mumbled.  "All  forms  are  only 
temporary — illusions  of  the  flesh !  Thou  knowest !  I 
know!" 

Outside,  the  wind  shrieked.  The  Elevated  cars 
blundered  along  their  steely  spider's  web,  like  weary 
creatures  seeking  shelter. 

"Say!     Yu  Ching!     Listen  t'me!" 

He  did  not  turn. 

"Buddha!"  he  prayed.  "Permit  me  to  withdraw 
my  senses  wholly  into  meditation!" 

"Looka  here !"  came  Marie  Na  Liu's  voice,  strident 
and  challenging. 

She  closed  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  room.  He 
could  hear  the  rustle  of  her  garments,  could  smell  a 
faint  perfume. 

He  bent  his  head  on  his  chest;  tried  to  conquer  his 
senses. 


22(5  ALIEN  SOULS 

"I  wanta  talk  t'yer!" 

He  did  not  move ;  did  not  speak. 

Peace,  perfect,  exquisite — there  was  the  secret  of 
life,  the  way  of  salvation.  He  had  reached  it  once, 
had  felt  it  once;  like  the  stillness  of  dawn  in  a  lonely 
place,  like  the  quiet  hush  of  unseen  stars.  He  had 
reached  it  and  felt  it.  He  did  not  want  to  lose  it 
again.  The  pilgrimage  had  been  hard,  hard. 

Deliberately,  he  gathered  his  soul  into  an  inner 
fold  of  his  consciousness. 

And  then,  as  from  very  far  off,  across  illimitable 
distances,  he  heard  again  his  wife's  voice — low,  ap 
pealing;  presently  leaping  out  extraordinarily  strong, 
with  a  sweep  of  utter  abandon. 

"Bill  Devoy — 'member  the  plain-clothes  cop? — ? 
slips  me  woid  that  ye've  retoined.  And — well.  .  .  . 

"Say!  When  y'  left  me,  three  years  ago,  I  sed  to 
myself  I'd  never  forgive  yer — never  wanted  t'see  yer 
mug  again.  Told  yer  I  hated  yer,  didn't  I?  Gee — 
I  was  sure  some  sore !  But,"  she  gave  a  little  throaty, 
embarrassed  laugh,  "well — here  I  am — see  ?" 

Silence.  He  could  hear  her  breath  coming  in  sibi 
lant,  staccato  sobs.  Again  her  voice : 

"Y'make  it  hard  fer  a  feller,  don't  yer?  Say! 
Sweetness!  I  got  my  pride — I'm  a  woman,  ain't  I?" 

Her  voice  broke  a  little. 

"Sweetness!  Aw — Gawd!  Why  don't  yer  speak 
t'me?" 

The  words  wavered,  sank,  rose  again. 

"Why  don't  yer  say  somethin'?  Anything — oh — 
anything!  Just  toin  and  look  at  me,  won't  ye?  Coise 
me !  Swear  at  me !  Tell  me  to  clear  outa  here !  But 
— please — speak!  Aw — sweetness — won't  yer  talk 
t'me — please?" 


THE  PERFECT  WAY  227 

Yu  Ching  felt  words  rising  in  his  throat.  He  choked 
them  back.  All  this — Pell  Street,  the  noises  of  the 
night,  his  wife — was  an  illusion  in  a  sea  of  illusions. 
It  was  not  real.  It  was  taking  place  in  an  alien  world 
of  dreams.  There  was  only  his  own  soul,  safe  in  some 
inner  and  secret  sanctuary  of  eternity,  where  the  riot 
and  tumult  of  external  life  dared  not  intrude. 

He  smiled,  very  gently. 

Somewhere,  quite  close  to  him,  there  was  the  sweet 
passion  and  pain  of  long,  exquisite  suffering,  some  in 
tense  yearning.  But,  surely,  it  was  not  in  his  own 
body,  his  own  heart.  It  was  just  the  remote  experience 
of  a  life  which  he  had  once  known — which  he  would 
never  know  again. 

"All  forms  are  only  temporary — only  temporary — " 
he  mumbled. 

"So  yer  won't  talk  t'me — eh?" 

The  question  came  with  a  harsh,  vindictive  grating, 
and  something  beyond  fear  stole  with  a  freezing  touch 
upon  Yu  Ching's  placid  soul.  He  conquered  the  feel 
ing,  sent  it  reeling  back  to  the  undergrowth  of  his 
stilled,  half-remembering  consciousness. 

Came  silence. 

It  seemed  eternities  until  once  more  Marie  Na  Liu's 
harsh  words  dropped  into  the  great,  open  void. 

"Well— don't  talk,  if  yer  don't  feel  like  it !  But— 
ye'll  listen  t'me,  awright,  awright,  yer  damned  Chink ! 
Sure  Mike!  Ye'll  listen—" 

The  voice  plunged  on,  piercing,  high-pitched. 

"  'Member  young  Nag  Gin  Lee?  Ol'  Nag  Hong 
Fah's  nephew  from  Frisco,  who  came  here  t*  learn 
the  business?  Young  feller — 'member? — more  my 
own  age.  Swell  lookin'  guy,  and  some  classy  dresser, 
'member  him  ?  Say,  yer  damned  fat  old  Chink !  D'yer 


228  ALIEN  SOULS 

remember  him  ?  Yer  don't  ?  Well — I  do !  Yes,  sir, 
I  do!  And  d'yer  know  why?  D'yer  wanta  know?" 

She  spoke  through  her  teeth.  Her  words  clicked 
and  broke  like  dropping  icicles. 

She  rushed  up  to  her  husband.  She  gripped  his 
shoulders  with  frantic  hands.  She  forced  him  to  turn 
and  look  up  until  she  could  stare  straight  into  his  black, 
oblique  eyes,  her  own  eyes  blazing  fire  and  hate. 

"Not  that  ye'll  care!  Not  that  ye'll  give  a  damn! 
But — yer  might  as  well  know.  Me  and  young  Nag — 
me  and  him.  .  .  ." 

She  burst  into  gurgling,  hysterical  laughter  that 
shook  her  whole  body. 

"Me  and  him — me  and  him.  .  .  ." 

He  rose;  trembled. 

Marie  Na  Liu's  last  words  had  staggered  him  like 
a  blow  between  the  eyes. 

He  tried  to  control  himself. 

Peace,  perfect,  exquisite!  The  peace  of  the  soul, 
calm,  passionless,  serene,  in  a  world  of  illusions — 
ropes  of  illusions — ropes  of  sand.  .  .  . 

His  thoughts  groped,  slipped. 

Peace — the  Buddha's  peace — the  end  of  his  soul's 
pilgrimage.  But — and  an  extraordinary  revulsion 
caught  him,  flashed  upon  him  like  a  sheet  of  black 
fire — what  did  it  matter — his  soul's  pilgrimage?  What 
did  anything  rrtatter,  except — 

Marie  Na  Liu! 

Golden-haired — sloe-eyed.  .  .  .  Her  little  feet  had 
crushed  his  heart.  .  .  . 

He  felt  a  terrible  weakness  in  his  knees,  and  a  catch 
in  his  throat.  For  a  tenth  part  of  a  second  his  memory 
turned  back.  He  thought  of  a  day,  a  spring  day.  He 


THE  PERFECT  WAY  229 

had  come  home  rather  earlier  than  usual,  had  found 
young  Nag  sitting  across  from  his  wife,  close  to  her. 
He  had  heard  them  laugh  as  he  came  up  the  stairs — 
had  heard  mumbled  words. 

He  stood  there,  a  deep  sob  shaking  his  massive 
frame,  and  Marie  Na  Liu  was  still  laughing,  loudly, 
hysterically. 

"Sure!     Me  and  him — me  and  him.  .  .  ." 

She  rushed  to  the  door,  opened  it,  stood  no  the 
threshold. 

"Me  and  him — yer  poor  fish !  And  yer  never  knew 
— yer  never  guessed !" 

Her  words  came  like  the  lash  of  a  whip.  Yu  Ching 
sank  back  in  his  chair.  He  heard  the  door  close. 

His  wife — and  young  Nag!  His  wife — and  young 
Nag! 

The  words  repeated  themselves  in  his  thoughts. 
They  expanded  and  multiplied.  They  were  in  his 
veins,  in  his  bones,  in  the  roots  of  his  hair.  They 
seemed  to  fill  every  nook  and  cranny  of  his  brain. 

He  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  night  had  thick 
ened.  Mist  wreaths  pointed  with  long,  bloodless 
fingers.  Above  them  a  heavy  cloud-bank  lumbered 
clumsily  in, the  lilt  of  the  wind. 

Somebody  laughed  below  the  window.  Somebody 
cursed. 

Life  was  down  there ;  passion  and  desire,  love  and 
hate  and  ambition — life,  real  life.  His  own  soul,  he 
thought,  had  dared  sublime  achievement ;  it  had  failed, 
had  plunged  him  into  an  abyss. 

He  slumped  in  his  chair;  he  cried,  with  cracked, 
high-pitched  sobs,  as  strong  men  cry. 

He  did  not  hear  the  rattling  of  the  door  knob.    He 


23o  ALIEN  SOULS 

did  not  see  the  melting  and  dimming  of  the  bluish- 
green  gas  jet  in  the  outer  hall,  as  the  door  opened  and 
closed  again. 

But,  suddenly,  a  faint  scent  of  flowers  was  in  his 
nostrils.  Suddenly  he  felt,  close  to  him,  at  his  knees, 
a  yielding  form;  heard  soft,  broken  words: 

"Aw — sweetness!  Don't  yer  believe  wot  I  sed!  I 
lied!  Honest  t'  Gawd,  I  lied!  Yer  know  I  lied — 
don't  yer — don't  yer,  sweetness?" 

And  his  arms  folded  about  her,  and  she  nestled  like 
a  tired  bird. 

Then  he  smiled,  very  gently,  very  patiently. 

"Peace,"  he  whispered.  "Ah — peace — perfect,  ex 
quisite.  .  .  ." 


TAO 

IT  was  now  the  custom  of  Li  Ping-Yeng,  the  wealthy 
retired  banker,  to  sit  near  the  open  window  and  look 
up  at  the  sky,  which  seemed  always  to  be  packed  with 
dirty  clouds,  or  down  into  Pell  Street,  toward  the 
corner,  where  it  streams  into  the  Bowery  in  frothy, 
brutal,  yellow-and-white  streaks.  Occasionally,  hud 
dled  snug  and  warm  in  a  fold  of  his  loose  sleeve,  a 
diminutive,  flat-faced  Pekinese  spaniel,  with  convex, 
nostalgic  eyes  and  a  sniffy  button  of  a  nose,  would 
give  a  weak  and  rather  ineffectual  bark.  Then,  star 
tled,  yet  smiling,  Li  Ping-Yeng  would  rise  and  go 
down-stairs  to  the  Great  Shanghai  Chop  Suey  Palace 
in  search  of  food. 

To  do  this,  he  had  to  cross  his  apartment. 

Fretted  with  shifting  lights,  it  lay  in  dim,  scented 
splendor.  Underfoot  stretched  a  thick-napped  dragon 
rug  of  tawny  orange  and  taupe,  picked  out  with  rose- 
red  and  brown.  Age-darkened  tulip- wood  furniture 
faded  into  the  corners,  where  the  shadows  drooped  and 
coiled.  The  door  of  the  outer  hall  was  hidden  by  a 
great,  ebony-framed  screen  of  pale  lotus  silk  em 
broidered  with  conventionalized  figures,  black  and  pur 
ple  and  maroon,  that  represented  the  "Hei-song-che- 
choo,"  the  "Genii  of  the  Ink,"  household  gods  of  the 
literati ;  while  here  and  there,  on  table  and  taboret  and 
etagere,  were  priceless  pieces  of  Chinese  porcelain,  blue- 
and- white  Ming  and  Kang-he  beakers  in  aubergine  and 

231 


232  ALIEN  SOULS 

oxen-blood,  crackled  clair-de-lune  of  the  dynasty  of 
Sung,  peachblow  celadon,  Corean  Fo  dogs  and  Fong- 
hoang  emblems  in  ash-gray  and  apple-green. 

This  was  the  room,  these  were  the  treasures,  which 
years  ago  he  had  prepared  with  loving,  meticulous  care 
for  the  coming  of  his  bride. 

She  had  come,  stepping  mincingly  in  tiny  bound 
feet,  "skimming,"  had  said  an  impromptu  Pell  Street 
poet  who  had  cut  his  rice  gin  with  too  much  heady 
whompee  juice,  "over  the  tops  of  golden  lilies,  like 
Yao  Niang,  the  iron-capped  Manchu  prince's  famous 
concubine." 

But  almost  immediately — the  tragedy  had  not 
loomed  very  large  in  the  morning  news,  starting  with 
a  crude  head-line  of  "Woman  Killed  in  Street  by  Car 
on  Wrong  Side,"  and  winding  up  with  "The  Chauffeur, 
Edward  H.  Connor,  of  No.  1267  East  I57th  Street, 
was  held  at  the  West  68th  Street  Station  on  a  charge 
of  homicide" — her  body  had  passed  into  the  eternal 
twilight,  her  soul  had  leaped  the  dragon  gate  to  join 
the  souls  of  her  ancestors. 

And  to-day  Li  Ping-Yeng,  in  the  lees  of  life,  was 
indifferent  to  the  splendors  of  Ming  and  Sung,  of 
broidered  silks  and  carved  tulip-wood.  To-day  there 
was  only  the  searching  for  his  personal  tao,  his  inner 
consciousness  removed  from  the  lying  shackles  of  love 
and  hate,  the  drab  fastening  of  form  and  substance 
and  reality. 

Daily,  as  he  sat  by  the  window,  he  approached  nearer 
to  that  center  of  cosmic  life  where  outward  activity 
counts  for  less  than  the  shadow  of  nothing.  Daily  he 
felt  the  tide  rise  in  his  secret  self,  trying  to  blend  with 
the  essence  of  eternity.  Daily,  beyond  the  dirty  clouds 
of  lower  Manhattan,  beyond  the  Pell  Street  reek  of 


TAO  233 

sewer-gas  and  opiumi  and  yellow  man  and  white,  he 
caught  a  little  more  firmly  at  the  fringe  of  final  ful 
fillment. 

Food  ?  Yes.  There  was  still  the  lying  reality  called 
body  which  needed  food  and  drink  and  occasionally  a 
crimson-tasseled  pipe  filled  with  a  sizzling,  amber  cube 
of  first-chop  opium.  Also,  there  was  the  little  Pekin 
ese  spaniel  that  had  once  belonged  to  his  bride, — "Su 
Chang,"  "Reverential  and  Sedate,"  was  its  ludicrous 
name, — and  it  cared  nothing  for  tao  and  cosmic  eter 
nity,  but  a  great  deal  for  sugar  and  chicken  bones  and 
bread  steeped  in  lukewarm  rqilk. 

"Woo-ooff!"  said  "Reverential  and  Sedate." 

And  so,  startled,  yet  smiling,  Li  Ping-Yeng  went 
down-stairs  to  the  Great  Shanghai  Chop  Suey  Palace, 
exchanged  courtly  greetings  with  the  obese  proprietor, 
Mr.  Nag  Hong  Fah,  and  ordered  a  heaped  bowl  for 
the  spaniel,  and  for  himself  a  platter  of  rice,  a  pinch  of 
soey  cheese,  a  slice  of  preserved  ginger  stem,  and  a 
pot  of  tea. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  was  back  in  his  chair  near 
the  window,  scrutinizing  sky  and  street. 

Unseeing,  meaningless  scrutiny ;  for  it  was  only  the 
conscious,  thus  worthless,  part  of  his  brain  which  per 
ceived,  and  reacted  to,  the  details  of  what  he  saw: 
the  lemon  tints  of  the  street  lamps  leaping  meanly  out 
of  the  trailing,  sooty  dusk  and  centering  on  a  vivid 
oblong  of  scarlet  and  gold  where  Yung  Long,  the 
wholesale  grocer,  flung  his  sign-board  to  the  winds  and 
proclaimed  thereon  in  archaic  Mandarin  script  that 
"Trade  revolves  like  a  Wheel";  an  automobile-load 
of  tourists  gloating  self-righteously  over  the  bland, 
shuffling  Mongol's  base  infinitudes;  a  whisky-soaked 
nondescript  moving  along  with  hound-like  stoop  and 


234  ALIEN  SOULS 

flopping,  ragged  clothes,  his  face  turned  blindly  to  the 
stars  and  a  childlike  smile  curling  his  lips;  or,  per 
haps,  hugging  the  blotchy  shadows  of  a  postern,  the 
tiny  figure  of  Wuh  Wang,  the  wife  of  Li  Hsu,  the 
hatchet-man,  courting  a  particularly  shocking  fate  by 
talking,  face  close  against  face,  to  a  youth,  with  a 
checked  suit  and  no  forehead  to  speak  of,  whose  na 
tive  habitat  was  around  the  corner,  on  the  Bowery. 

Also  voices  brushed  up,  splintered  through  the  open 
window,  the  stammering,  gurgling  staccato  of  felt- 
slippered  Cantonese,  suggestive  of  a  primitive  utter 
ance  going  back  to  the  days  before  speech  had  evolved ; 
the  metallic  snap  and  crackle  of  Sicilians  and  Cala- 
brians  talking  dramatically  about  the  price  of  garlic 
and  olive-oil;  the  jovial  brogue  of  Bill  Devoy,  detec 
tive  of  Second  Branch,  telling  a  licenseless  peddler  to 
"beat  it";  the  unbearable,  guttural,  belching  whine  o£ 
Russian  Hebrews,  the  Pell  Street  symphony,  with 
the  blazing  roar  of  the  elevated  thumping  a  dissonant 
counterpoint  in  the  distance. 

Li  Ping-Yeng  saw,  he  heard,  but  only  with  the 
conscious,  the  worthless  part  of  his  brain;  while  the 
real  part,  the  subconscious,  was  occupied  with  the  real 
ization  of  himself  which  he  must  master  in  order  to 
reach  the  excellent  and  august  wisdom  of  too — the 
search  of  his  inner  soul,  beyond  the  good  and  the  evil, 
which,  belike,  he  had  muddied  by  his  too  great  love 
for  his  wife. 

This  tao  was  still  too  dim  for  him  to  see  face  to 
face.  It  was  still  beyond  the  touch  and  feel  of  definite 
thought.  Its  very  possibility  faded  elusively  when 
he  tried  to  bring  it  to  a  focus.  Yet  he  knew  well 
what  had  been  the  basis  of  it.  He  had  learned  it  by 
the  bitterest  test  of  which  the  human  heart  is  capable 


JAO  235 

— the  negative  test ;  the  test  of  suffering  and  unfulfilled 
desire;  the  test  of  acrid  memory.  "Memory,"  he  would 
say  to  himself,  over  and  over  again,  patiently,  defiantly, 
almost  belligerently,  when  the  thought  of  his  wife's 
narrow,  pleasurable  hands  rose  flush  with  the  tide  of 
his  regrets  and,  by  the  same  token,  caused  his  tao 
once  more  to  dim  and  fade — "memory,  which  is  of 
the  dirt-clouted  body,  and  not  of  the  soul." 

Yet  in  the  matter  of  acrid  memory  and  unfulfilled 
desire  Miss  Edith  Rutter,  the  social-settlement  investi 
gator  who  specialized  in  the  gliding  vagaries  of  the 
Mongol  mind  as  exemplified  in  Pell  Street,  had  brought 
back  at  the  time  an  entirely  different  tale,  an  entirely 
different  interpretation  of  Chinese  philosophy,  too. 

But  be  it  remembered  that  philosophy  is  somewhat 
affected  by  surroundings,  and  that  Miss  Rutter  had 
been  on  a  visit  to  an  aunt  of  hers  in  Albany,  balancing 
a  Jasper  ware  tea-cup  and  cake-plate  on  a  scrawny, 
black-taffeta-covered  knee,  and,  about  her,  tired, 
threadbare  furnishings  that  harped  back  to  the  days  of 
rep  curtains,  horsehair  chaise-longues,  wax  fruit,  shell 
ornaments,  banjo  clocks,  pictures  of  unlikely  children 
playing  with  improbable  dogs,  cases  of  polished  corne 
lian,  levant-bound  sets  of  Ouida,  and  unflinching,  un 
compromising  Protestant  Christianity. 

"My  dear,"  she  had  said  to  Aunt  Eliza  Jane,  "the 
more  I  see  of  these  Chinamen,  the  less  I  understand 
them.  This  man  I  told  you  about,  Mr.  Li  Ping-Yeng; 
— oh,  a  most  charming,  cultured  gentleman,  I  assure 
you,  with  such  grand  manners! — I  saw  him  a  few 
minutes  after  they  brought  home  the  poor  crushed  lit 
tle  body  of  his  young  bride,  his  two  days'  bride,  and, 
my  dear, — would  you  believe  it  possible? — there  wasn't 
a  tear  in  his  eyes,  his  hands  didn't  even  tremble.  And 


236  ALIEN  SOULS 

when  I  spoke  to  him,  tactful,  gentle,  consoling  words, 
what  do  you  imagine  he  replied  ?" 

"I've  no  idea." 

"He  smiled!  Yes,  indeed,  smiled!  And  he  said 
something — I  forget  the  exact  words — about  his  hav 
ing,  perhaps,  loved  too  much,  his  having  perhaps  been 
untrue  to  his  inner  self.  I  can't  understand  their 
philosophy.  It  is — oh — so  inhuman!"  She  had  puz 
zled.  "How  can  anybody  love  too  much  ?  What  can 
he  have  meant  by  his  'inner  self  ?" 

"Pah !  heathens !"  Aunt  Eliza  Jane  had  commented 
resolutely.  "Have  another  cup  of  tea?" 

Thus  the  judgment  of  the  whites ;  and  it  was  further 
crystallized  in  detective  Bill  Devoy's  rather  more 
brutal :  "Say,  them  Chinks  has  got  about  as  much 
feelings  as  a  snake  has  hips.  No  noives — no  noives 
at  all,  see  ?"  and  Mr.  Brian  Neill,  the  Bowery  saloon 
keeper's  succinct:  "Sure,  Mike.  I  hates  all  them 
yeller  swine.  They  gives  me  the  bloody  creeps." 

Still,  it  is  a  moot  point  who  is  right,  the  Oriental, 
to  whom  love  is  less  a  sweeping  passion  than  the  result 
of  a  delicate,  personal  balancing  on  the  scales  of  fate, 
or  the  Occidental,  to  whom  love  is  a  hectic,  unthink 
ing  ecstasy,  though,  given  his  racial  inhibitions,  often 
canopied  in  the  gilt  buckram  of  stiffly  emotional  sex- 
romanticism. 

At  all  events,  even  the  humblest,  earthliest  coolie  be 
tween  Pell  and  Mott  had  understood  when,  the  day 
after  his  wife's  death,  Li  Ping-Yeng  had  turned  to 
the  assembled  company  in  the  back  room  of  the  Great 
Shanghai  Chop  Suey  Palace,  which  was  for  yellow 
men  only  and  bore  the  euphonic  appellation,  "The  Hon 
orable  Pavilion  of  Tranquil  Longevity,"  and  had  said : 

"The  ancients  are  right.  One  must  preserve  a  proper 


TAG  237/ 

balance  in  all  emotions.  The  man  who,  being  selfish, 
loves  too  much,  is  even  as  the  one  who  cooks  the  dregs 
of  wretched  rice  over  a  sandalwood  fire  in  a  pot  of  lapis 
lazuli,  or  as  one  who  uses  a  golden  plow  in  preparation 
for  cultivating  weeds,  or  as  one  who  cuts  down  a 
precious  camphor-grove  to  fence  in  a  field  of  coarse 
millet.  Such  a  man  is  the  enemy  of  his  own  too.  It 
is  most  proper  that  such  a  man  should  be  punished." 

After  a  pause  he  had  added : 

"I  am  such  a  man,  brothers.  I  have  been  punished. 
I  tied  my  soul  and  my  heart  to  a  woman's  jeweled  ear 
rings.  The  ear-rings  broke.  The  woman  died.  Died 
my  heart  and  my  soul.  And  now,  where  shall  I  find 
them  again?  Where  shall  I  go  to  seek  for  my  tao?" 

There  had  come  a  thick  pall  of  silence,  with  only  the 
angry  sizzling  of  opium  cubes  as  lean,  yellow  hands 
held  them  above  the  openings  of  the  tiny  lamps;  a 
sucking  of  boiling-hot  tea  sipped  by  compressed  lips; 
somewhere,  outside,  on  the  street,  a  cloudy,  gurgling 
trickle  of  obscene  abuse,  presently  fading  into  the 
memory  of  sounds. 

The  men  sighed  heavily.  Coolies  they  were,  the 
sweepings  of  the  Canton  gutters  and  river-banks, 
cooks,  waiters,  grocers,  petty  traders;  yet  men  of  an 
ancient  race,  behind  whom  stretched  forty  centuries  of 
civilization  and  culture  and  philosophy,  in  solemn, 
graven  rows.  Thus  they  were  patient,  slightly  hard, 
not  easily  embarrassed,,  submimely  unself conscious, 
tolerant,  permitting  each  man  to  look  after  his  own 
fate,  be  it  good  or  evil.  Anti-social,  an  American 
would  have  called  them,  and  he  would  have  been  wrong. 

Li  Ping-Yeng  had  bared  his  naked,  quivering  soul 
to  their  gaze.  He  was  their  friend;  they  respected 
him.  He  was  a  rich  man,  an  educated  man.  Yet  Li 


238  ALIEN  SOULS 

Ping-Yeng's  life  was  his  own  to  make  or  to  mar. 
Sympathy?  Yes;  but  not  the  arrogant  indelicacy  of 
help  offered,  of  advice  proffered. 

Thus  they  had  thought,  all  except  Yu  Ch'ang,  the 
priest  of  the  joss-temple. 

For  many  years,  since  he  made  his  frugal  living  by 
catering  to  the  spiritual  weal  of  Pell  Street,  it  had  been 
the  latter's  custom,  when  he  foregathered  with  his 
countrymen,  to  gain  face  for  himself  and  his  sacerdotal 
caste  by  talking  with  nagging,  pontifical  unction  about 
things  religious  and  sectarian.  But,  being  a  hedge- 
priest,  self-appointed,  who  had  received  only  scanty 
training  in  the  wisdom  of  the  "three  precious  ones," 
the  Buddha  past,  the  Buddha  present,  and  the  Buddha 
future,  he  had  found  it  hard  to  uphold  his  end  when 
tackled  by  Li  Ping-Yeng,  the  banker,  the  literatus, 
anent  the  contents  of  such  abstruse  books  of  theolog 
ical  learning  as  the  "Park  of  Narratives,"  "Ku-liang's 
Commentaries,"  or  the  "Diamond  Sutra." 

Now,  with  the  other  baring  his  bleeding  soul,  he 
had  seen  a  chance  of  settling  the  score,  of  causing 
him  to  lose  a  great  deal  of  face. 

"Little  brother,"  he  had  purred,  "I  am  a  man  of 
religion,  a  humble  seeker  after  truth,  whose  knowledge 
is  not  to  be  compared  with  yours ;  yet  have  I  thought 
much.  I  have  thought  left  and  thought  right.  Often 
in  the  past  have  we  differed,  you  and  I,  on  minor 
matters  of  philosophy  and  ceremonial.  May  I,  the 
very  useless  one,  address  words  of  advice  to  you,  the 
great  literatus?" 

"Please  do." 

"Ah !  Then  let  me  reply  with  the  words  of  Confu 
cius,  that  he  who  puts  too  much  worth  on  worthless 
things,  such  as  the  love  of  woman,  the  love  of  the 


TAO  239 

flesh,  is  like  the  wolf  and  the  hare,  leaving  the  direc 
tion  of  his  steps  to  low  passions.  To  lead  such  a  man 
into  the  august  ways  of  tao  is  as  futile  as  tethering  an 
elephant  with  the  fiber  of  the  young  lotus,  as  futile 
as  the  attempt  to  cut  a  diamiond  with  a  piece  of  wood, 
as  futile  as  trying  to  sweeten  the  salt  sea  with  a  drop 
of  honey,  or  to  squeeze  oil  from  sand.  Ah,  ahee!" 
He  had  spread  out  his  fingers  like  the  sticks  of  a  fan 
and  had  looked  about  him  with  brutal  triumph. 

The  other's  features,  as  yellow  as  old  parchment, 
indifferent,  dull,  almost  sleepy,  had  curled  in  a  queer, 
slow  smile.  He  was  smoking  his  fourth  pipe,  a  pipe 
of  carved  silver,  with  a  green-amber  mouthpiece  and 
black  tassels.  The  room  had  gradually  filled  with 
scented  fog.  The  objects  scattered  about  had  lost  their 
outlines,  and  the  embroidered  stuffs  on  the  walls  had 
gleamed  less  brilliantly.  Only  the  big,  violet-shaded 
lanterns  on  the  ceiling  had  continued  to  give  some  light, 
since  poppy  vapors  are  slow  to  rise  and  float  nearer 
the  ground. 

"You  are  wrong,  wise  priest,"  he  had  replied. 

"Wrong?" 

"Yes.  For  there  is  one  who  can  tether  the  elephant 
with  the  fiber  of  the  young  lotus,  who  can  cut  a  dia 
mond  with  a  piece  of  soft  wood,  sweeten  the  salt  sea 
with  a  drop  of  honey,  and  squeeze  oil  from  sand." 

"Who?"  Yu  Ch'ang  had  asked,  smiling  crookedly 
at  the  grave  assembly  of  Chinese  who  sat  there,  suck 
ing  in  their  breath  through  thin  lips,  their  faces  like 
carved  ivory  masks. 

Li  Ping-Yeng  had  made  a  great  gesture. 

"The  Excellent  Buddha,"  he  had  replied,  in  low, 
even,  passionless,  monotonous  accents  that  were  in 
curious,  almost  inhuman,  contrast  to  the  sublime, 


240  ALIEN  SOULS 

sweeping  faith  in  his  choice  of  words.  "The  Omni 
scient  Gautama!  The  All-Seeing  Tathagata!  The 
Jewel  in  the  Lotus!  The  most  perfectly  awakened 
Blessed  One  who  meditates  in  heaven  on  His  seven- 
stepped  throne !" 

And  again  the  grave  assembly  of  Chinese  had  sat 
very  still,  sucking  in  their  breath,  staring  at  their  neat, 
slippered  feet  f romf  underneath  heavy,  hooded  eyelids, 
intent,  by  the  token  of  their  austere  racial  simplicity, 
on  effacing  their  personalities  from  the  focus  of  alien 
conflict ;  and  then,  like  many  a  priest  of  many  a  creed 
before  him,  Yu  Ch'ang,  sensing  the  silent  indifference 
of  his  countrymen  and  interpreting  it  as  a  reproach  to 
his  hierarchical  caste,  had  let  his  rage  get  the  better 
of  his  professional,  sacerdotal  hypocrisy. 

"The  Buddha?  Here?  In  Pell  Street?"  he  had 
exclaimed.  He  had  laughed  hoarsely,  meanly.  "Find 
Him,  the  Excellent  One,  the  Perfect  One,  in  Pell 
Street?  Look  for  the  shining  glory  of  His  face — here 
— in  the  soot  and  grease  and  slippery  slime  of  Pell 
Street?  Search,  belike,  for  fish  on  top  of  the  moun 
tain,  and  for  horns  on  the  head  of  the  cat !  Bah !"  He 
had  spat  out  the  word,  had  risen,  crossed  over  to  the 
window,  thrown  it  wide,  and  pointed  to  the  west, 
where  a  great,  slow  wind  was  stalking  through  the  sky, 
picking  up  fluttering  rags  of  cloud.  "Go !  Find  Him, 
the  Buddha,  in  the  stinking,  rotten  heaven  of  Pell 
Street!  Go,  go — by  all  means!  And,  perhaps,  when 
you  have  found  Him,  you  will  also  have  found  your 
tao,  fool!" 

"I  shall  try,"  had  come  Li  Ping-Yeng's  reply.  "Yes ; 
most  decidedly  shall  I  try."  He  had  walked  to  the 
door.  There  he  had  turned.  "Little  brother,"  he 
had  said  to  the  priest  over  his  shoulder,  without  malice 


TAG  241 

or  hurt  or  bitterness,  "and  why  should  I  not  find  Him 
even  in  the  Pell  Street  gutters?  Why  should  I  not 
find  my  tao  even  in  the  stinking,  rotten  heaven  that 
vaults  above  Pell  Street?  Tell  me.  Is  not  my  soul 
still  my  soul?  Is  not  the  diamond  still  a  diamond, 
even  after  it  has  fallen  into  the  dung-heap?" 

And  he  had  stepped  out  into  the  night,  staring  up 
at  the  purple-black  sky,  his  coat  flung  wide  apart,  his 
lean,  yellow  hands  raised  high,  indifferent  to  the  rain 
that  had  begun  to  come  down  in  flickering  sheets. 

"Say,  John,  wot's  the  matter?  Been  hittin'  the  old 
pipe  too  much?  Look  out!  One  o'  these  fine  days  I'll 
raid  that  joint  o'  yours,"  had  come  detective  Bill 
Devoy's  genial  brogue  from  a  door-way  where  he  had 
taken  refuge  against  the  elements. 

Li  Ping-Yeng  had  not  heard,  had  not  replied ;  except 
to  talk  to  himself,  perhaps  to  the  heaven,  perhaps  to 
the  Buddha,  in  staccato  Mongol  monosyllables,  which, 
had  Bill  Devoy  been  able  to  understand,  would  have 
convinced  him  more  than  ever  that  that  there  Chink 
was  a  sure-enough  hop-head : 

"Permit  me  to  cross  the  torrent  of  grief,  O  Buddha, 
as,  even  now,  I  am  crossing  the  stream  of  passion! 
Give  me  a  stout  raft  to  gain  the  other  side  of  blessed 
ness!  Show  me  the  way,  O  King!" 

Back  in  the  honorable  Pavilion  of  Tranquil  Lon 
gevity,  slant  eye  had  looked  meaningly  into  slant 
eye. 

"Ah,  perhaps  indeed  he  will  find  his  tao,"  Yung 
Long,  the  wholesale  grocer,  had  breathed  gently;  and 
then  to  Yu  Ch'ang,  who  had  again  broken  into  harsh, 
mean  cackling,  said : 

"Your  mouth  is  like  a  running  tap,  O  very  great  and 
very  uncouth  cockroach !" 


242  ALIEN  SOULS 

"Aye,  a  tap  spouting  filthy  water."  This  was  from 
Nag  Sen  Yat,  the  opium  merchant. 

"A  tap  which,  presently,  I  shall  stop  with  my  fist," 
said  Nag  Hop  Fat,  the  soothsayer,  winding  up  the 
pleasant  round  of  Oriental  metaphor. 

Thus  was  displayed,  then,  the  serene,  if  negative, 
sympathy  of  the  Pell  Street  confraternity,  further 
demonstrated  by  its  denizens  leaving  Li  Ping-Yeng 
hereafter  severely  alone  and  by  replying  to  all  questions 
and  remarks  of  outsiders  with  the  usual  formula  of 
the  Mongol  when  he  does  not  wish  to  commit  himself : 
"No  savvy!" 

"I  feel  so  terribly  sorry  for  him," — this  from  Miss 
Edith  Rutter, — "Is  there  really  nothing  I  can  do  to — " 

"No  savvy." 

"Looka  here," — from  Bill  Devoy, — "you  tell  that 
brother-Chink  o'  yourn,  that  there  Li  Ping-Yeng,  to 
stop  hittin'  the  black  smoke,  or  I'll  pinch  him  on  spec, 
see?" 

"No  savvy." 

"Listen !" — from  the  old  Spanish  woman  who  kept 
the  second-hand  store  around  the  corner,  on  the  Bow 
ery, — "What  do  you  think  he's  going  to  do  with  all 
the  truck  he  bought  for  his  wife?  I'd  like  to  buy  the 
lot.  Now,  if  you  want  to  earn  a  commission — " 

"No  savvy." 

"Is  he  goin*  t*  try  holy  matrimony  again,  or  near- 
matrimony?" — from  Mr.  Brian  Neill,  the  saloon 
keeper,  who  occasionally  added  to  his  income  by  un 
savory  deals  between  the  yellow  and  the  white, — 
"For,  if  he  wants  another  goil,  there's  a  peacherino 
of  a  red-headed  good-looker  that  blows  into  my  back 
parlor  once  in  a  while  and  that  don't  mind  Chinks  as 
long's  they  got  the  kale — " 


TAG  243 

"No  savvy." 

And  even  to  the  emissary  of  a  very  great  Wall  Street 
bank  that  in  the  past  had  handled  certain  flourishing 
Manila  and  Canton  and  Hankow  accounts  for  the  Pell 
Street  banker,  and  who,  unable  to  locate  him  personally 
and  being  slightly  familiar  with  Chinese  customs,  had 
sought  out  the  head  of  the  latter' s  masonic  lodge  and 
had  asked  him  why  Li  Ping-Yeng  had  retired  from 
business,  and  if,  at  all  events,  he  wouldn't  help 
them  with  the  unraveling  of  a  knotty  financial  tangle 
in  far  Shen-si.  Even  there  was  the  same  singsong 
answer : 

"No  savvy,"  exasperatingly,  stonily  repeated. 

"No  savvy,  no  savvy." 

For  two  days  after  his  wife's  tragic  death  Li  Ping- 
Yeng,  to  quote  his  own  words,  had  given  up  vigorously 
threshing  mere  straw,  by  which  term  he  meant  all  the 
every-day,  negligible  realities  of  life. 

He  had  begun  by  selling  his  various  business  inter 
ests;  nor,  since  he  was  a  prosy  Mongol  whose  brain 
functioned  with  the  automatic  precision  of  a  photo 
graphic  shutter  and  was  nowise  affected  by  whatever 
was  going  on  in  his  soul,  had  he  made  a  bad  deal.  On 
the  contrary,  he  had  bargained  shrewdly  down  to  the 
last  fraction  of  a  cent. 

Then,  prudently,  deliberately,  the  patient  and  materi 
alistic  Oriental  even  in  matters  of  the  spirit,  he  had 
swept  his  mind  clear  of  everything  except  the  search 
for  his  tao,  the  search  for  his  salvation.  This  tao  was 
to  him  a  concrete  thing,  to  be  concretely  achieved,  since 
it  was  to  link  him,  intimately  and  strongly,  not  with, 
as  would  have  been  the  case  had  he  been  a  Christian, 
an  esoteric  principle,  a  more  or  less  recondite,  theo 
logical  dogma,  but  with  a  precious  and  beneficent  in- 


244  ALIEN  SOULS 

fluence  that,  although  invisible,  was  not  in  the  least 
supernatural.  For  he  was  of  the  East,  Eastern;  he 
did  not  admit  the  existence  of  the  very  word  "super 
natural."  To  him  everything  was  natural,  since 
everything,  even  the  incredible,  the  impossible,  the 
never-to-be-understood,  had  its  secret,  hidden  roots  in 
some  evolution  of  nature,  of  the  Buddha,  the  blessed 
Fo,  the  active  and  eternal  principle  of  life  and  creation. 

Perhaps  at  the  very  first  his  search  had  not  been 
quite  as  concise,  had  rather  shaped  itself  to  his  per 
plexed,  groping  mind  in  the  terms  of  a  conflict,  a  dis 
tant  and  mysterious  encounter  with  the  forces  of  fate, 
of  which  his  wife's  death  had  been  but  a  visible,  out 
ward  fragment. 

Then,  gradually — and  by  this  time  it  had  become 
spring,  wakening  to  the  white-and-pink  fragrance  of 
the  southern  breezes — spring  that,  occasionally,  even 
in  Pell  Street,  painted  a  sapphire  sky  as  pure  as  the 
laughter  of  little  children — he  had  stilled  the  poignant 
questionings  of  his  unfulfilled  desires,  his  fleshly  love, 
and  had  turned  the  search  for  his  tao  into  more  prac 
tical  channels. 

Practical,  though  of  the  soul !  For,  again,  to  him, 
a  Chinese,  the  soul  was  a  tangible  thing.  Matter  it 
was,  to  be  constructively  influenced  and  molded  and 
clouted  and  fashioned.  It  had  seemed  to  him  to  hold 
the  life  of  to-morrow,  beside  which  his  life  of  to-day 
and  yesterday  had  faded  into  the  drabness  of  a 
wretched  dream.  He  had  wanted  this  to-morrow,  had 
craved  it,  sensing  in  it  a  freedom  magnificently  remote 
from  the  smaller  personal  existence  he  had  known 
heretofore,  feeling  that,  presently,  when  he  would  have 
achieved  merit,  it  would  stab  out  of  the  heavens  with 


TAO  245 

a  giant  rush  of  splendor  and,  greatly,  blessedly, 
overwhelm  him  and  destroy  his  clogging,  individual 
entity. 

But  how  was  this  to  be  attained?  Had  he  been  a 
Hindu  ascetic,  or  even  a  member  of  certain  Christian 
sects,  he  would  have  flagellated  his  body,  would  have 
gone  through  the  ordeal  of  physical  pain.  But,  a  Mon 
gol,  thus  stolidly  unromantic  and  rational,  almost  tor 
pidly  sane,  he  had  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  On  the 
contrary,  he  had  continued  to  take  good  care  of  him 
self.  True,  he  had  begun  to  eat  less,  but  not  pur 
posely  ;  simply  because  his  appetite  had  decreased.  And 
his  real  reason  for  keeping  his  wife's  Pekinese  spaniel 
tucked  in  his  sleeve  was  because  "Reverential  and  Se 
date"  reminded  him  when  it  was  time  for  luncheon 
or  dinner,  hours  he  might  otherwise  have  forgotten. 

The  idea  of  suicide  had  never  entered  his  reckoning, 
since  he  held  the  belief  of  half  Asia,  that  suicide  de 
stroys  the  body  and  not  the  soul;  that  it  is  only  a 
crude  and  slightly  amateurish  interruption  of  the  pres 
ent  life,  leaving  the  thread  of  it  still  more  raveled  and 
tangled  and  knotted  for  the  next  life,  and  yet  the 
next. 

He  had  passed  over  the  obvious  solution  of  devoting 
himself  to  charity,  to  the  weal  of  others,  as  it  had 
seemed  to  him  but  another  instance  of  weak  and  selfish 
vanity,  fully  as  weak  and  selfish  as  the  love  of  woman ; 
and  the  solace  of  religion  he  had  dismissed  with  the 
same  ready,  smiling  ease.  Religion,  to  him,  was  not 
an  idea,  but  a  stout,  rectangular  entity,  a  great  force 
and  principle,  that  did  its  appointed  duty  not  because 
people  believed  in  it,  but  because  it  was.  The  Buddha 
would  help  him,  if  it  be  so  incumbent  by  fate  upon 


246  ALIEN  SOULS 

the  Buddha,  regardless,  if  he  prayed  to  him  or  not,  if 
he  memorized  the  sacred  scriptures,  if  he  burned 
sweet-scented  Hunshuh  incense-sticks  before  the  gilt 
altar  or  not.  For  the  Buddha,  too,  was  tied  firmly  to 
the  Wheel  of  Things.  The  Buddha,  too,  had  to  do  his 
appointed  task.  Thus,  Li  Ping-Yeng  had  decided, 
prayers  would  be  a  waste  of  time,  since  they  could  not 
influence  the  Excellent  One  one  way  or  the  other. 

How,  then,  could  he  acquire  sufficient  merit  so  as 
to  reach  his  tao,  beyond  the  good  and  the  evil? 

Of  course,  first  of  all,  mainly,  by  tearing  from  his 
body  and  heart  even  the  last  root  of  the  liana  of  desire, 
of  love,  of  regret  for  his  wife;  by  again  and  again 
denying,  impugning,  destroying  the  thought  of  her, 
though,  again  and  again,  it  would  rise  to  the  nostrils 
of  his  remembrance,  with  a  stalely  sweet  scent  like  the 
ghost  of  dead  lotus-blossoms. 

She  was  on  the  shadow  side  of  the  forever.  Her 
soul,  he  would  repeat  to  himself,  incessantly,  defiantly, 
belligerently,  had  leaped  the  dragon  gate.  Broken 
were  the  fetters  that  had  held  him  a  captive  to  the 
tinkle-tinkle-tinkle  of  her  jeweled  ear-rings.  A  mere 
picture  she  was,  painted  on  the  screen  of  eternity,  im 
personal,  immensely  aloof,  passed  from  the  unrealities 
of  the  earth  life  to  the  realities  of  the  further  cosmos. 
He  must  banish  the  thought  of  her,  must  forget  her. 

And  he  did  forget  her,  again  and  again,  with  the 
effort,  the  pain  of  forgetting  choking  his  heart. 

Sitting  by  the  window,  his  subconscious  mind  cen 
tered  on  his  tao,  his  salvation,  the  blessed  destruction 
of  his  individual  entity,  "Reverential  and  Sedate"  hud 
dled  in  a  fold  of  his  loose  sleeve,  scrutinizing  street 
and  sky  with  unseeing  eyes,  he  would  forget  her 
through  the  long,  greasy  days,  while  the  reek  of  Pell 


TAG  247 

Street  rose  up  to  the  tortured  clouds  with  a  mingled 
aroma  of  sweat  and  blood  and  opium  and  suffering, 
while  the  strident  clamor  of  Pell  Street  blended  with 
the  distant  clamor  of  the  Broadway  mart. 

He  would  forget  her  through  the  long,  dim  evenings, 
while  the  sun  died  in  a  gossamer  veil  of  gold  and 
mauve,  and  the  moon  cut  out  of  the  ether,  bloated 
and  anemic  and  sentimental,  and  the  night  vaulted 
to  a  purple  canopy,  pricked  with  chilly,  indifferent 
stars. 

He  would  sit  there,  silent,  motionless,  and  forget, 
while  the  stars  died,  and  the  moon  and  the  night,  and 
the  sky  flushed  to  the  opal  of  young  morning,  and 
again  came  day  and  the  sun  and  the  reek  and  the  maze 
and  the  soot  and  the  clamors  of  Pell  Street. 

Forgetting,  always  forgetting;  forgetting  his  love, 
forgetting  the  tiny  bound  feet  of  the  Plum  Blossom, 
the  Lotus  Bud,  the  Crimson  Butterfly.  Her  little, 
little  feet!  Ahee!  He  had  made  his  heart  a  carpet 
for  her  little,  little  feet. 

Forgetting,  reaching  up  to  his  tao  with  groping 
soul;  and  then  again  the  thought  of  his  dead  wife, 
again  his  tao  slipping  back ;  again  the  travail  of  forget 
ting,  to  be  forever  repeated. 

And  so  one  day  he  died;  and  it  was  Wuh  Wang, 
the  little,  onyx-eyed,  flighty  wife  of  Li  Hsu,  the 
hatchet-man,  who,  perhaps,  speaking  to  Tzu  Mo,  the 
daughter  of  Yu  Ch'ang,  the  priest,  grasped  a  fragment 
of  the  truth. 

"Say,  kid,"  she  slurred  in  the  Pell  Street  jargon, 
"that  there  Li  Ping-Yeng  wot's  kicked  the  bucket  th' 
other  day,  well,  you  know  wot  them  Chinks  said — how 
he  was  always  trying  to  get  next  to  that — now — tao 
of  his  by  trying  to  forget  his  wife.  Well,  mebbe  he 


248  ALIEN  SOULS 

was  all  wrong.  Mebbe  his  tao  wasn't  forgetting  at 
all.  Mebbe  it  was  just  his  love  for  her,  his  always 
thinking  of  her,  his  not  forgetting  her — that  was  his 
real  tao." 

"Mebbe,"  replied  Tzu  Mo.    "I  should  worry!" 


THE   END 


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